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THINK YOU, LIFE IS ALL A DREAM? 



From Dawn to SUnset 



...POETRY AND PROSE... 



A CHOICE COLLECTION, COMPRISING 

POEMS OF THE DAY, SUNSHINE AND SORROW, STRUGGLES AND 

VICTORIES, GLORY, HONOR, RICHES, LOVE AND MARRIAGE, 

REFLECTION, DEEDS UNDONE, DUTIES UNFULFILLED, 

OLD AGE, CONTENTMENT, ABSENCE, 

HOPE, HOME, HEAVEN. 



CONTAINING ALSO 



HISTORICAL SKETCHES OF NOTED WOMEN, ESSAYS, DESCRIPTIVE TRAVELS 
PRIZE STORIES, AND FRONTIER TALES. 



TOGETHER WITH 



Forty-Eight Full-Page Illustrations. 



..EDITED BY,.-;. I ^'^^^ ^ 



MONARCH BOOK COMPANY, 

(Formerly L. P. Miller & Co.l 

Chicago, III. Philadelphia, Pa. 



K 



71? 






COPYRIGHTED BY 

LINCOLN W. WALTER. 
1893. 



Publishers' Notice. 



Through the courtesy of The Chicago Record, we are able to 
add to this collection many choice stories which have appeared in that 
paper at various times. Thanks are also due all others in permitting 
selections to be drawn from their works. 



INDEX TO CONTENTS. 



The Two Mysteries, 

Bed-Time, ... 

The Sdccessfuli Man, 

There's More Than One Way, 

Snow Stories, 

The Silver Boat, 

The Cornstalk's Lesson, 

Birds op No Feather, 

The Lonely Rose, . 

The Puritan Maiden's May-Day, 

A Deep-Sea Dream, 

Two Little Paths, 

Waiting: A Winter's Tale, 

On Christ-Day Night, 

" It Is the Season," 

Song of Spring, 

A True Story op a Storm, 

In October, - . - 

A Bird's House, 

The Child and the Gentian, 

"Nobody," ... 

The Spells op Home, 

"I Knew By the Smoke," 

Heart and Home, 

Sweet Home, 

The Joys op Home, 

My Books, ... 

The Library, 

The Old Ancestral Mansion, 

The Old Clock, 

My Home, ... 









PAGE 






Mary Mapes Dodge, 


21 






Margaret Vaudegrift, 


22 






Ella Wheeler Wilcox, 


22 






Mrs. M. B. a Slade, 


23 






JIfrs. Clara Doty Bates, 


23 






Mrs. M. F. Butts, 


24 






Mrs. Christine C. Brush, 


-25 






Mrs. Maggie B. Peeke, 


26 






Philip Bourke Marston, 


29 






Margaret J. Preston, 


31 






Anonymous, ... 


32 






Sophie Swett, 


35 






Sallie M. B. Piatt, - 


36 






Nora Perry, - 


39 






Anonymous, ... 


41 






Anonymous, - - . 


43 






Mrs. S. M. Piatt, 


43 






Mrs. L. C. Whiton, - 


44 






Anonymous, - - . 


44 






Mrs. M. F. Butts, 


47 






Anna F. Burnham, - 


47 






F. D. Hemans, 


48 






Thomas Hood, 


50 






Mrs. L. H. Sigourney, 


51 






Clara Doty Bates, 


53 






Sir John Bowring, . . . 


53 






Elizabeth B. Browning, 


56 






George Crabbe, 


56 






Samuel Rogers, 


58 






Anonymous, 


62 






Robert Herridge, 


63 



12 



INDEX lO CONTENTS. 



Consecration of a Maw House, . 

A Home, - - - . . 

The Bonnie Me Well, ... 

To A Family Bible, 

The Fireside, - - . . 

A Mind Content, - - . . 

A Heaven Upon Earth, ... 

The Family Altae, ... 

March and the Boys, ... 

The Silent Children, ... 

The Crab-Catchers, ... 

The Voice of the Chestnut Tree, 

Unsatisfied, .... 

Bab's Petticoats, - - . . 

Little Bridget's Christmas Flowers, . 

The Little Queen, ... 

Prophesies, .... 

The Evening Hearth-Stone, 

A Hymn for Family Worship, - 

The Cotter's Saturday Night, - 

The Psalm Book in the Garret, 

Old Chests in the Garret, 

The Broken Hearth-Stone, 

A Happy House, ... 

Evening Song op the Weary, 

Hymn for Bed-Time, ... 

A Gathered Family, ... 

The Old Arm-Chair, ... 

The Housewife, .... 
Family Ties, - . . . 

Lemuel's Song, - - . . 

The Chimes of England, ... 
York Garrison, .... 

Katie and Her Kite, ... 

Fairy Dreams, - . . . 

The Sunburn Gloves, 
My Sweetheart, .... 
The Little Pixey People, 
The Unhappy Little Girl's Soliloquy, 
To A Butterfly, - . - . 

A Christmas Carol, ... 

The Minute Man, - . - . 

The Child's Party, - - . . 

Love Perennial,, .... 
Love Changeth Not, ... 



Abbey De Vere, 

Anonymous, 

Hugh MacDonald, 

Anonymous, 

Nathaniel Cotton, 

Robert Qreen, 

J. Henry Leigh Hunt, 

Samuel B. Summer, - 

Mary D. Brine, 

Anonymous, 

Mrs. Celia Thaxter, • 

Mrs. M. F. Butts, 

Adelaide G. Waters, - 

Sarah J. Burke, 

Lucy Larcom, 

Susan Coolidge, 

Catherine Lente Stevenson, 

Anonymous, 

Henry Alford, 

Robert Burns, 

Anonymous, 

Anonymous, 

Anonymous, 

Eric Findlater, 

Felicia D. Hemans, - 

Gerard Moultrie, 

Sir John Browning, 

Eliza Cook, 

Anonymous, - 

Fitzarthur, 

George Wither, 

Arthur C. Coxe, 

Sarah Orne Jewett, ■ 

Clara Doty Bates, 

Louis Hall, 

Clara Doty Bates, 

James Berry Bensel, 

James Whitcomb Riley, 

M. E. B., - . ' 

Anonymous, - 

Mary E. Wilkins, 

Margaret Sidney, 

Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt, . 

Thomas Hood, 

William Shakespeare, 



INDEX 10 CONTENTS. 



13 



Shall I Tell You Whom I Love? 

Rather on Earth, ... 

Fairer THAJ^^ Thee, - . . 

Grace After Meat, 

The First Kiss, ... 

The Last Kiss, ... 

DoLciNO TO Margaret, 

Somebody, .... 

A Woman's Question, 

The Love-Knot, ... 

The Exchange, ... 

The Spinning-Wheel Song, 

I Love Thee, ... 

Fob Love's Sake Only, 

Meeting, - - . . 

The Turn of the Tide, 

The Little Brown Cabin, - 

A Wedding Sermon, 

Home, - ... 

A Happy Wife, ... 

The Ideal Marriage, 

AuLD Robin Gray, ... 

My Love, .... 

To My Sister on the Eve of Her Marriage, 

Peace in Love, ... 

If Thou Wert By My Side, My Love, 

Wife, Children, and Friends, 

Marriage Song, ... 

Hebrew Wedding, - - - 

Married Life, ... 

Little Rosebud, ... 

Little Justine, ... 

Her Proof, .... 

The Christmas Gift, 

The Quest, - . . . 

Taking the Morning Air, 

The Children's Saint, 

A Builder's Lesson, 

A Dream of Dolls, 

Art Needlework, - . . 

The Season That Is Coming, 

The Three Sons, 

Sunday Night, ... 

The Sunday Baby, - 

My Beautiful Tickatock, 



William, Browne, 
Elizabeth B. Browning, 
Author Unknown, 
Gilbert Tadt, - 
Elizabeth B. Browning, 
Robert Burns, 
Charles Kingsley, 
Author Unknown, 
Adelaide Anne Proctor, 
Nora Perry, - 
Susan T. Coolidge, 
John Francis Waller, 
Thomas Hood, 
Elizabeth Browning, 
Robert Browning, 
Anonymous, 
Lucy Larcom, 
Coventry Patmore, - 
Anonymous, 
Elizabeth Browning, 
Alfred Tennyson, 
Lady Anne Barnard, 
James Russell Lowell, 
Edward H. Bickersteth, 
Elizabeth Broivning, 
Reginald Heber, 
Wm. Robert Spencer, 
George MacDonald, - 
Henry Hart Milman, 
James Thompson, 
Elizabeth Cummings, 
Celia Thaxter, 
M. E. W., 
Celia Thaxter, 
Jane Campbell, 
Mrs. M. F. Butts, 
Kate Ritman Osgood, 
John Boyle O^Reill, - 
Ida Whipple Benham, 
Dora Read Goodale, 
Sirs. M. F. Butts, 
John Moultrie, 
Anonymous, - 
Helen Hunt Jackson, 
Louise S. Upham, 



PAGE 

127 
127 
128 
131 
131 
132 
132 
133 
133 
134 
138 
139 
139 
UO 
143 
143 
144 
147 
148 
151 
151 
152 
153 
156 
157 
158 
158 
159 
159 
160 
163 
163 
167 
167 
169 
170 
171 
174 
174 
178 
180 
181 
183 
184 
187 



14 



INDEX TO CONTE^TTS. 



Op Such Is the Kingdom op God, 
The Angel's Whisper, 
Good-Night, - - - " 

The Little Maiden aud the Little Bikd, 
A Christmas Carol, - - - 

Judge Not, - - - - - 

My Daughter, - - - " 

If I Could Keep Her So, 
Blessings on Children, . . - 

On the Threshold, ... 

The Children's Church, ... 
A Story Told to Gracie, 
A Daniel Come to. Judgment, 
The Dame School, - 
The Danish Emigrants, ... 
Grandmother's Cap, ... 

King Robert's Bowl, ... 

Only a Year, - - - ' - 

My Boy, . . - - - 

For the Youngest, 

To My Mother, . . - - 

A Beautiful Woman, ... 

My Mother's Bible, ... 

John Anderson, . . . - 

Homes, . . . - - 

The Three Fishers, . . - 

The Old Oaken Bucket, - - - 

Great Grandmother's Spinning- Wheel, 
The Heart's Homk 

If We Knew, - - - - 

Thanksgiving, - - - - 

Take Thy Old Cloak About Thee, 
Saturday Afternoon, - - - 

Parson Kelley, - - - - 

Come Homk, - - - • 

The Adld Man to His Wife, 
Coming Home, - - - " 

Our Own, - - - " " 

My Ain Codntree, - - - - 

Sweet Auburn, - - , - 

Home and Heaven, - - - 

A Picture, - - - - " 

The Quaker Widow, - - - 

A Babe in Its Heavenly Home, - 
The Graves of a Household, - 



Mrs. J. T. Luke, 
Samuel Lover, 
Mrs. L. C. Whiton, - 
Harriet Kimball, 
J. G. Holland, 
Anonymous, - 
Nathaniel P. Willis, 
Louise C. Moulton, - 

Wm. Gilmore Simms, 

Anonymous, - 

J. F. Clarke, D. D., - 

Author Unknown, - 

M. E. B; 

Anna F. Burnham, - 
Clara Doty Bates, - 
O. F. Barnes, - 
Clara Doty Bates, 
Harriet B. Stoioe, 
John Pierpont, 

Charles Wesley, 

Charles Lamb, 

Author Unknown, - 

George P. Morris, 

Robert Burns, 

Thomas K. Hervey, - 

Charles Kingsley, 

Clara Doty Bates, - 
Frederick W. Faber, 
Author Unknown, 
Anna Letitia Waring, 
Author Unknown, - 
Nathaniel P. Willis, 
Annie Douglass Green, 
Lucy Larcom, 
Maud Moore, 
Phcebe Cary, 
Author Unknown, - 
Mary Lee Demarest, 
Oliver Ooldsmith, 
John Very, 
Charles Eastman, 
Bayard Taylor, 
Allan Cunningham, 
Felicia Hemans. 



page 
188 
191 
192 
193 

:m 

1&5 
195 
197 
197 
198 
201 
202 
204 
207 
208 
210 
211 
212 
215 
216 
216 
217 
218 
218 
219 
220 
222 
223 
224 
227 
228 
232 
■ 233 
235 
235 
236 
239 
240 
243 
243 
244 
244 
244 
246 
2i^ 



INDEX TO CONTENTS. 



15 



Eaeth and Heaven, 

The Light op Home, 

The Chkistmas Bali,, 

The Pdkitan Doll, 

The Gift That None Can See, 

A Little Sister's Story, - 

The Brownie's CnRistTMAS, 

The Rose and the Waif, - 

A King's Merry Christmas, 

Once Upon a Time, 

The Last op the Pippins, 

The Peacock That Sailed Away, 

The Roman Boy's Trophies, 

Roasting Corn, 

Christmas Carol, 

Willie Wee, 

Courtesy, - . - 

In Midsummer, 

Little Lottie's Grievance, 

John 8. Crow, 

Conspiracy op the Weathercocks, 

An Incursion op the Danes, 

The Weed's Mission, 

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, 

The Double Prayer, 

Nursery Prayers, - 

An Unfinished Prayer, 

A Rooking Hymn, 

German Cradle Song, 

Once Upon a Time, 

A Castle in Spain, 

Little Maid Bertha's Stork, 

Turkey-Tail Brooms, 

The Cockhorse Regiment, 

An Astronomical Observation, 

The Baby in the Library, 

A Grand Peace Meet, 

Through the Heart of Paris, 

Just Seven Years Old, 

An Easter Rose, 

The Perfect World, 

Robin Hood, - - . 

"Father's Coming, 

Holy Matrimony, 

The Little "White-Haired Mother," 



Thomas Hood, 
Sarah Hale, - 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
M. E. B., 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
Mary Palmer Daly, 
Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt, 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
Clara Doty Bates, 
L. C. Whiton, 
M. J. Preston, 
Clara Doty Bates, 
Juliet C. Marsh, 
Mrs. A. M. Diaz, 
Mrs. L. C. Whiton, 
Mrs. L. C. Whiton, 
Author Unknown, 
Kirke Monroe, 
R. S. P., 

Author Unknown, 
Margaret Eytinge, 



Anonymous, - 
Anonymous, - 
Anonymous, - 
Author Unknown, 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
Mary E. Wilkins, 
Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, 
Clara G. Dolliver, 
Francis A. Humphrey, 
Mrs. Whiton Stone, - 
Edward D. Anderson, 

Will P. Hooper, 

Frank T. Muriel, 

Abigail Adams Foster, 

Sarah Preseott Kellogg, 

W. J. Roe, 

Clinton Seollard, 

Mary Hou'itt,- 

John Keeble, - 

Helen Hunt Jackson, 



PAGE 

249 

249 

252 

254 

255 

258 

260 

265 

267 

268 

271 

275 

275 

276 

279 

279 

282 

285 

286 

288 

292 

294 

295 

296 

299 

300 

301 

302 

303 

304 

305 

312 

317 

319 

325 

325 

326 

334 

346 

348 

351 

351 

352 

352 

353 



16 



INDEX TO CONTENTS. 



Memories of the Old Kitchen, 
The Ha'-Biele, .... 

A Winter Evening's Hymn to My Fire, • 
Thanksgiving Turkey, ... 

A Farewell, - . . . . 

To A Little Daughter, ... 
Christmas Eve, .... 

Vacation Days, .... 

After Vacation, .... 
A Spring Song, .... 

Child Songs, .... 

Telling a Story, .... 
The Boy Who Would Sit Up, 
Best, --..-. 
The Mother's Day-Dream, 
A Mother's Thoughts by Her Child, 
A Child Asleep, .... 
An Angel and Her Child, 
Children Everywhere, ... 
An Angel in the House, ... 
Which Shall Go? .... 
The Child's Talent, ... 

Earth Without Children, 
Rejoicing the Homeless, ... 
The Wee Bit Shoon, ... 

A Mother's Wail, - . . . 

Heaven, ..... 

Going to Bed, .... 

Bed-Time, ..... 
My Little One, .... 
A Little Child's Hymn, ... 
Sleep Well, My Dear, ... 
Little Barbara, .... 
A Little April Fool, ... 
Contrary Town, .... 
Unsophisticated, .... 
Christ Was Born To-Day, 
The Mother's Opportunity, 
Mothers Put Your Children to Bed, - 
Home Shadows, .... 

Little Troubles, .... 
The Power of Influence, 
Cleopatra, - - . . . 

Home Instruction, ... 

The Home op Childhood, 











PAGE 




Author Unknown, 


- 


- 


353 




Robert Nicol, - 


. 


. 


355 




James Russell Lowell, 


- 


356 




Anonymous, - 


• 


- 


360 




Charles Kingsley, 


• 


- 


362 




Muhlenberg, - 


- 


- 


363 




May Riley Smith, 


- 


- 


365 




Ella Farman, - 


- 


- 


365 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


367 




Margaret Sidney, 


- 


- 


369 




John Oreenleaf Whittier, - 


- 


370 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


371 




Anonymous, - 


• 


- 


875 




Helen Hunt Jackson, 


- 


376 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


377 




Anonymous, - 


- 


■ - 


378 




Elizabeth Browning 


- 


- 


381 




H. W. Longfellow, 


- 


- 


382 




Mary Hoicitt, - 


- 


- 


383 




Leigh Hunt, - 


- 


- 


384 




Elizabeth Kinney, 


. 


- 


385 




James Edmeston, 


- 


- 


386 




Author Unknown, 


- 


. 


386 




Anonymous, - 


- 


• 


390 




J. C. Rankin, 


- 


. 


391 




Author Unknown, 


. 


- 


392 




Anonymous, • 


- 


- 


395 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


395 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


396 




Edgar Fawcett, 


- 


- 


398 




F. T. Palgrave, 


- 


- 


399 




J. C. Jaeobi, - 


- 


- 


399 




Clara Doty Bates, 


. 


. 


400 




C. L. C, 


- 


- 


403 




Clara Louise Burnham, 


. 


403 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


404 




Yetta Aaron, 


- 


- 


417 




Anonymous, - 


- 


. 


420 




Mothers'' Magazine, 


• 


- 


420 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


423 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


424 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


426 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


427 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


440 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


440 



INDEX TO CONTENTS. 



17 













PAGE 


The Old Home, . . - . 




Alfred Tennyson, 


■ 




444 


Our Friends in Heaven, - 




Anonymous, - 


- 




444 


Glimpses op Heaven, 




Anonymous, - 


■ 




445 


Enemies Meet at Death's Door, 




Anonymous, - 


- 




446 


The Starless Crown, 




Author Unknown, 


- 




448 


An Angel in a Saloon, 




Western Temperance Herald, 


44S 


Too Late For a Train, - - ■ 




Anonymous, - 


- 


. 


452 


Temptations, ... 




Author Unknoum, 


. 


- 


457 


The Loom of Life, 




Anonymous, - 


- 


. 


463 


Mv Mother At the Gate, 




Author Unknotcn, 


- 


• 


463 


At the Tomb of Napoleon, 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


464 


A Courteous Mother, 




Author Unknoivn, 


- 


- 


464 


The Dark Forest of Sorrow, 




Anonymous, - 


- 


. 


466 


Heavenly Hope, . . . . 




Anonymous, - 


- 


■ 


469 


Comfortable Words, 




Anonymous, - 


- 


- 


470 


Bind Up the Broken-Hearted, - 




C. H. Spurgeon, 


- 


. 


472 


Loss, - - . . . 




Anonymous, - 


- 


■ 


472 


Sunshine, . - . . . 




Anonymous, - 


- 


• 


476 


Dolly's Postmaster, 




G. Malcomson, 


- 


• 


478 


Isabella, .... 




Anonymous, - 


- 


. 


4B2 


The Christmas Reunion, • 




Helen Sampson, 


- 


. 


486 


Josephine, .... 




Anonymous, - 


• 


. 


489 






iPi., I. N\'a.leii meeting TRicte ^ncl oassi'oB slerat'Seeuv'e jVom vfaking ■ 

-"er'ci^in ll-ie l^ueS fi^at fii^e Oui'|7eai''ls Corgot Hjeiv ancient ael?ino 
7 rije SuniloWij .?n(2 nigl/ts sl7ac1e, Oui^ sbiVitTs so Tfee jsast f orsalcmg-, 
?/oa&(i ojj adowi^ t/;e Vl/er- — 6/e kriev\r tJjat ieli?aj"e KouLr" ^ golden^ 
il^ timSelf ou/ Souls miglit Se/ef*, ©eiiglit Was oufSjancl incmoV^ olSen 
tvfe sljouttl so float foi' ei^/. 3n jtojajo^ sleefe Wks fast enftWen , 




^el7ni(i us sWejat" bast yeei a.nS.v/illoW; 
lSo\/e •jbr'oui' gujclc,and bsa^e ouK l3illov\A, 

what joy l5 See llje coy moon jaeebintf 
= - O 'ev Jvea tn I ng I) 1 1 U ^ w&ocl lanols sUebiJi^ 

_ €\>ei^ l^erjaid^fiil \^!aA Ifeeiamg. 




f3| rCP'=<AVEF\S, 



THE TWO MYSTERIES. 



THE TWO MYSTERIES. 



Mary Mapes Dodge, in Boston Transcript. 



WE know not what it is, dear, this Life is a mystery as deep as deatri ran ever 
sleep so deep and still ; be ; 

The folded hands, the awful Yet, oh, how sweet it is to us, this life we 
calm, the cheek so pale and chill, live and see! 

The lids that will not lift aeain, though we ^, ... , ■ , i 

,, , ,, Then might they say, those vanished ones, 
may call and call, ° %. / 

_,, ,. ,. , - , and blessed IS the thought. 

The strange white solitude of peace that ^ , , . 1,1,, 1 

, „ ^ So death is sweet to us, beloved, though we 

settles over all. „ , 

may tell you naught. 

We know not what it means, dear, this We may not tell it to the quick, this mystery 

desolate heart pain, of death ; 

The dread to take our daily way, and walk Ye may not tell it if ye would, the mystery 

in it again. of breath. 

We know not to what sphere the loved who ,„,,.,,, ,., ^ ...t. 

The child that enters life comes not with 
leave us go, , , , . ^ 

»-! , , 1 c, i J ».,. . knowledge or intent; 

Nor why we're left to wander still, nor why „ , , , ,, , ,.,., 

, , ■'So those who enter death must go as little 

we do not know. , ., , 

children sent. 

But this we know; our loved and lost, if Nothing is known, but I believe that God is 

they should come this day — overhead ; 

Should come and ask us: "What is life?" And as life is to the living, so death is to 

not one of us could say. the dead. 



BED II ME— THE S UC CE S S E UL MAN. 



BED-TIME. 



By Margaret Vandegrift. 



INDEED, and indeed I am not sleepy-, 
I want a story, one story, oh please ' 
My eyelids just feel a little creepy. 
And my head would like to lie on your knees." 

" It's the sand-man making your eyelids creepy,' 

I say, as 1 stroke the curly head ; 

" My darling is very, very sleepy, 

And here comes nurse to take her to bed." 



" I will bring her in, and to-morrow morning 
You shall find her under her patchwork spread, 
All safe and sound, with her hood beside her ; 
So kiss me, baby, and go to bed." 

" I was cross this morning, and whipped my kittens 
Because they v/ouldn't play horses right ; 
And I rubbed a coal on my little new mittens ; 
Forgive me, mamma ; I'm sorry to-night." 



"Just a minute, mamma, a little minute ! 

I haven't finished my dolly's hood ; 

I left the needle all sticking in it, 

And she has to have it — I said she should." 



A clinging hug, and a dozen kisses, 
From lips that are soft, and warm, and red. 
" I forgive you, darling ; I know you're sorry ; 
Love mamma always — and go to bed." 



"I will finish the hood for dolly, sweetheart, 
She shall have it to-night, as her mother said ; 
But the dark has come, and the stars are shining. 
And the nurse is waiting ; so go to bed." 

" But I left my dolly under the willow, 
Without her hat or her little shawl, 
With only an apple for her pillow. 
And nothing over her — nothing at all ! " 



" Ah, mamma darling, it's very lonely, 

I think I would like to wait for you ; 

The bed is so big with just me only. 

Who 2lx& you waiting ? You might come too." 

" You will be asleep in a minute, precious. 
After you lay down your little head . 
And when you wake, you will find me by you. 
One kiss, and then you 7nust go to bed ! " 



THE SUCCESSFUL MAN. 



ELLA WHEELER WILCOX says that if she were asked to define the meaning 
of a successful man, she would say: "A man who has made a happy home for 
his wife and children. No matter what he has not done in the way of achieving 
wealth and honor, if he has done that, he is a grand success. If he has not done that, and 
it is his own fault, though he be the highest in the land, he is a most pitiable failure. 
I wonder how many men in the mad pursuit of gold, which characterizes the age, realize 
that there is no fortune which can be left to their families as great as the memory of 
a happy home." 



SNOW STORIES. 



H 



THERE'S MORE THAN ONE ^VAY. 



BY MRS. M. B. C. SLADE. 



THE robin had built in the apple-tree high ; 
Low down in tlie moss dwelt the sparrow so shy ; 
The wren wove her nest in the jessamine fair ; 
The oriole hung up his castle-in-air — 
Heigh-ho ! how do they know 
Every summer to build them just so ? 

When robin and oriole, sparrow and wren 

Had finished their work and were resting — just then 

Dame Lazy-bird sat in the juniper high 

And sang, "Not a nest all tlie sum?ner build J 1" 

Heigh-ho ! how does she know 

Every summer to idle just so ? 

Bright yellow-bird's nest was all fashioned with grace 
And down in the dew she was washing her face, 
When Lazy-bird spying the nest all alone 



Just laid her brown egg there, as if 'twas her oicnl 
Heigh-ho ! how does she know 
Every summer to manage just so .? 

Now out of her nest in the barberry-bush 
Poor yellow-bird tries the intruder to push ; 
But, finding she cannot, with fern-cotton light 
She works till she buries it out of her sight ! 
Heigh-ho ! how did she know 
From her dilemma to come out just so? 

Dame Lazy-bird saw it, and moping all day 
Sat silent, ashamed of her indolent way ; 
While yellow-bird twittered, " I've often heard that 
Ther^ s more than one way, ma'am, to kill — kill a cat i'^ 
Heigh-ho ! how did she know 
The very best proverb to quote to her foe? 



SNOW STORIES. 



By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. 



WHEN over the earth, all shivering, bare. 
The sky drops down a thick white fleece, 
We say that up in the clouds somewhere 
A little old woman picks her geese — 
A feather here and a feather there, 
Handfuls downy and soft and fair, 
Gray while falling, but white below, 
She flings to all the winds that blow. 

But there are children over the sea. 
Mid Scotland's rugged mountains bred. 

Who, fond of a fairy tale as we, 
Call it the fairies making bread — 



Bread for their breakfast or their tea. 
And say that they work so carelessly. 
And scatter the wheaten flour so, 
It powders all the winds that blow. 

Which is the prettier legend, Ted ? 

The little old woman picking geese, 
Or the heedless fairies making bread ? 
Choose of the two which one you please. 
And with tippet and overcoat and sled 
Go out till your cheeks are rosy red, 
And your whole little body all aglow I - 
Feathers or flour, you like the snow. 



H 



THE SILVER BOAT. 



THE SILVER BOAT, 



BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS. 




THERE is a boat upon a sea ; 
It never stops for you or me. 
The sea is blue, tiie boat is white, 
It sails throusrh winter and summer night. 



It fears no gale, it fears no wreck, 
It never meets a change or check 
Through weather fair or weather wild- 
The oldest saw it when a child. 



The swarthy child in India land 
Points to the prow with eager hand ; 
The little Lapland babies cry 
For the silver boat a-sailing by. 



Upon another sea below 
Full many vessels come and go ; 
Upon the swaying swinging tide 
Into the distant worlds they ride. 



And, strange to tell, the sea below. 
Where countless vessels come and go, 
Obeys the little boat on high 
Through all the centuries sailing bv. 



THE CORN STALK'S LESSON. 



25 



THE CORNSTALK'S LESSON. 

By Mrs. Christine Chaplin Brush. 




IN IDLE MOOD. 



ONE single grain of corn took root 
Beside the garden walk ; 
" Oh, let it stay," said little May, 
" I want it for my stalk." 

And there it grew, until the leaves 
Waved in the summer light ; 

All day it rocked the baby ear, 
And wrapped it warm at night. 

And then the yellow corn-silk came^ 

A skein of silken thread : 
It was as pretty as the hair 

Upon the baby's head. 

Alas ! one time, in idle mood, 

May pulled the silk away. 
And then forgot her treasured stalk 

For many a summer day. 

At last she said, '• I'm sure my com 

Is ripe enough to eat ; 
In even rows the kernels lie. 

All white, and juicy sweet." 

Ah me ! they all were black and dty^; 

Were withered long ago ; 
" What was the naughty corn about," 

She said, " to cheat me so ! " 

She did not guess the silken threads 

Were slender pipes to lead 
The food the tasselled blossom shook 

To each small kernel's need. 

The work her foolish fingers wrought 
Was shorter than a breath; 

Yet every milky kernel then 
Began to starve to death ! 

So list, my little children all, 

This simple lesson heed : 
That many a grief and sin has come 

From one small thoughtless deed. 



«& 



BIRDS OF NO FEATHER. 



BIRDS OF NO FEATHER. 



BY MRS. MAGGIE B. PEEKE. 



FOUR little birds in a nest too small, 
Only one mamma to care for all ; 
'Twas twitter and chirp the livelong day, 
No wonder the mamma soon grew gray. 



Papa-bird was a dashing fellow, 
Coat of black with a flash of yellow ; 
Never a bird in the early spring 
Could rival him when he chose to sins 



Sorry day for the wretched fellow. 
Dressed so gay with a scarf of yellow ! 
Shut in the house from morning till nighty 
Was ever a bird in such a plight ? 



He helped the mamma-bird hang the nest 
Where the winds would rock it the very best 
And while she sat on her eggs all day. 
He'd cheer her up with a roundelay. 



Tie on a hood, or fasten a shoe. 
Or mend a dolly as good as new, 
Or tell a story over again, 
Or kiss the finger that had a pain, 



But when from each egg in the swinging bed, 
A little birdie popped its head. 
He said to his wife, " I've done my share 
Of household duties ; they're now your care.' 



Or settle dispute of which and who, 
Or sew on a button to baby's shoe — 
These were a part of the calls he had 
In that single day to drive him mad. 



Then off he'd go to a concert fine 
In the apple-trees and bright sunshine, 
Without a thought of the stupid way 
His poor little wife must pass her day. 



At even he said, " Another day 

Would turn my goldenest plume to gray; 

Or else, in a fit of grim despair, 

I'd flins; these children into the air ! " 



At last the mamma-bird fell ill, 
And the papa forced, against his will, 
To take her place with the birdies small, 
Ready to answer their chirp and call. 



Have I mixed up birds with human folks? 
And homes with nests in the lofty oaks ? 
The stor}^ is true, and I overheard 
Those very words of the papa-bird ; 



But who he was, and where he did dwell, 
I'll never, 710 never, no never tell ! 
The truth for once is truth for aye. 
And this is the reason mammas grow gray. 



rr 










FODB UTTLS BIRDS IN A HE3T TOO SMAUn 



THE LONELY ROSE. 



29 




30 



THE LONELY ROSE. 



Said the White Rose, " Oh my Red Rose, 

Oh my Rose so fair to see, 

When like thee I am a dead rose 

Shall I in that heaven be ? " 

Oh the dread October blast ! 

In the garden leaves fall fast— 

This of roses is the last. 



"From that heavenly place, last night, 

To me in a dream she came — 
Stood there in the pale moonlight, 
And she seemed my Rose, the same." 
Oh the chill October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast — 
This of roses is the last. 

* Only it maybe, perchance. 

That her leaves were redder grown 
And they seemed to thrill and dance 
As by gentle breezes blown." 
Oh the dread October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast — 
This of roses is the last. 



" And she told me, sweetly singing, 

Of that heavenly place afar 
Where the air with song is ringing. 
Where the souls of all flowers are." 
Oh the chill October blast ! 
In the garden leaves fall fast — 
This of roses is the last. 

" And she bade me not to fail her. 

Not to lose my heart with fear 
Seeing that her skies turned paler 
With the sickness of the year — 
I should be beyond the blast 
And the leaves now falling fast 
In that heavenly place at last." 




'Aw^%^ 




THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY-DAY.— A. D. i686. 



31 




A PURITAN FLOWER 



THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY-DAY. — A. D. 1686. 



By Margaret J. Preston. 



AH, well-a-day ! 'ihe grandames say 
That they had merry times 
When they were young, and gayly rung 
The May-day morning chimes ; 



Ah me, the sight of such delight, 
The joy, the whirl, the din, 

Such merriment, such glad content — 
How could it be a sin ? 



Before the dark was gone, the lark 
Had left her grassy nest, 

And, soaring high, set all the sky 
A-throb from east to west ; 



When children crowned the May-pole round 

With daisies from the sod, 
What was it, pray, but their child's way 

Of giving thanks to God ? 



The hawthorn-bloom with rich perfume 
Was whitening English lanes, 

The dewy air was everywhere 
Alive with May-day strains ; 



The wild bee sups from buttercups 

The honey at the brim : 
May I not take their buds and make 

A posy up for Him ? 



And laughing girls with tangled curls 
And eyes that gleamed and glanced, 

And ruddy boys with mirth and noise, 
Around the May-pole danced. 



If, as I pass knee-deep through grass 
This May-day cool and bright 

And see away on Boston Bay 
The lines of shimmering light, 



A DEEP SEA DREAM. 



I gather there great bunches fair 

Of May-flower as I roam, 
And with them round my forehead crowned, 

Go ladened with them home, 

And then, if Bess and I should dress 

A May-pole with our wreath, 
And just for play, this holiday. 

Should dare to dance beneath. 

My father's brow would frown enow : 
— '■'■Child ! ■why hast thou a mind 



For Popish days, and EjigUsh ways, 
And lusts ■we've left behifid? " 

Our grandame says that her May-days, 
With mirtli, and song, and flowers, 

And lilt of rhymes and village chimes, 
Were happier far than ours. 

If, as I ween, upon the green 
She danced with merry din, 

Yet lived to be the saint I see, 
— How can / count it sin ? 



A DEEP SEA DREAM. 



O MOTHER, mother, hear the sea ! it calls across the sands ; 
I saw it tossing up the spray like white, imploring hands 
Last night before the moon went down ; and when I fell asleep, 
I saw it crawl and kiss my feet — I heard it moan and weep! 

It cried, "O little maid! come down, come down! nor say us nay! 
There's not a soul in all the sea to think, or love, or pray! 
Come, that our lower world may see the shining of God's face; 
He lives in loving, human hearts, and not in seas and space." 

And so it drew me down and down, below the restless waves. 

Through leagues and leagues of still green depths, through arching coral caves, 

And fairy gardens set with flowers — the like were never seen — 

And feathery forests, tint o'er tint, of rose, and gold, and green. 

And there were plants like plumy palms, that melted into gray, 
Or mists of gold, or clouds of rose, they were so far away; 
And there were flowers, like garden-pinks and poppies, in the sea, 
And, mother, they were all alive, and waved their hands to me ! 



And shining fish and dolphins came to gaze in still surprise; 
And strange sea-monsters crowded near with cold and hungry eyes: 
And ah grew dark, and then I called, " O mother, mother, come ! " 
And, mother, m.other, I'm so glad to be with you at home ! 




A DEEP SEA PRiEAM. 



TWO LITTLE PATHS. 



35 





SOPHIE SWETT 



" I," said the other, " my fortune will seek, 
And find the fairies that somewhere ckister. 

Daisies are bright, but common as light, 
And sunbeams, with all their merry lustre, 

Dull enough when one sees them forever, — 

What flowers, I wonder, live by the river ? 

And where in the woods do red-caps hide ? 

Here there is never one, I am certain, 
For I've chased the brook into every nook, 

And pushed back the tali fern's green lace curtain." 
Then they said good-by, each one to follow 
Its own sweet way over hill and hollow. 



TWO little paths met by a sparrow's nest, 
Down in the meadow green and sunny, 
And, sitting there 'neath a rose-tree rare. 
Where a yellow bee was sipping honey, 
Made plans for the merry summer weather, 
With their dewy faces close together. 

" Oh, I," said one, " I shall stay in the field. 
And hither and thither through the clover 
Will trip away through the long bright day, 
But never stray to the woodland's cover. 
Here brooks and sunbeams laugh in the grasses, 
And I find bluebells for pretty lasses." 



But the one that went its fortune to seek. 
Never found it, but still kept peeping 

Mid clustering bells by woodland wells. 

And lost itself through a great marsh creeping ; 

Was hindered by briers and choked by rushes, 

And always turning aside for bushes. 





And the one who took for itself no thought. 
But sought for weary feet cool sweet places, 

Mid dewdrops bright, in midsummer night, 
Met troops of fairies with all their graces ; 

And often felt through its velvet mazes 

The touch of light feet as soft as daisies ! 



36 



WAITING A WINTER'S TALE. 



.,--3C(fctTse— -«3"^r-— p- 



fi^Tf^ '" ^' .jrf~**'^-y^' 





SANTA KLAUS, HIGH LORD AND MASTER Or ALL FAIRIES, 



WAITING A WINTER'S TALE 



By Mrs. Sallie M. B. Piatt. 

SOME sweet things go just to make room for others : 
The blue field-blossom hurries from the dew 
(My little maiden, hush your noisy brothers) 
And see, the wild-rose reddens where it grew ! 

The green leaf fades that you may see the 3'ellow ; 

We have the honey when we miss the bee ; 
Who wants the apples, scarlet-stained and mellow, 

Must give the buds upon his orchard-tree ; 




Then, for those finely painted birds that follow 
The sun about and scent their songs with flowers, 

We have, when frosts are sharp and rains beat hollow, 
These pretty, gray crumb-gathering pets of ours ; 



The butterflies (you could . ot €;.-> L; were bnght 
Than anything that we have left in air ; - 

But these still-flying shapes of snow are whites,' 
I fancy, than the very lilies were. 



WAITING A WINTER'S TALE. 



37 



Then, is the glimmer of fire-flies, cold and eerie, 

Far in the dusk, so pleasant after all 
'a.s is this home-lamp playing warm and cheery, 

Among your shadow-pictures on the wall ? 

But I forget. There ought to be a story, 
A lovely story ! Who shall tell it, then ? 

The boys want war — plumes, helmets, shields and 
glory — 
They'd like a grand review of Homer's men. 



Just now in the dim North, as he remembers 

His birthday back through centuries, he appears. 

A trifle sad, and looks into the embers — 

Then shakes down from his cheek a shower of 
tears. 

He thinks of little hands, that reached out lightly 
To catch his beard and pub it with a will, 

Now round their buried rosebuds folded whitely. 
Forever and forever, oh, how still ! 



Their jealous sisters say it's tiresome hearing 

(A girl is not as patient as a boy,) 
Of that old beauty — yes, the much-recurring. 

About-three-thousand-years-old, Helen of Troy. 



" Ah, where are all the children ? How I miss them.l 
So many worlds-full are gone since I came ! 

I long to take them to my heart and kiss them, 
And hear those still small voices laugh my name. 



They'd rather hear some love-tale faintly murmured 
Through music of the sleigh-bells : something true, 

Such as their young grandmothers, shy and saintly. 
Heard under stars of winter — told anew ! 



" Some over whom no violet yet is growing ; 

Some under broken marble, ages old ; 
Some lie full fathom five where seas are flov/ing ; 

Some, among cliffs and chasms, died a -cold; 



The little children, one and all, are crying 
For just a few more fairies — but, you know 

They go to sleep when golden-rod is dying. 
And do not wake till there is no more snow. 



" Some through the long Wars of the Roses faded j 
Some did walk barefoot to the Holy Land ; 

Some show young faces with the bride's-veil shaded ; 
Some touch me with the nun's all-gracious hand ;, 



They sleep who kept your Jersey cow from straying. 
My boy, while you were deep in books and grass : 

Who tended flowers, my girl, while you were playing 
Some double game, or wearing out your glass. 



" Some in the purple with crown-jewels burning, 
Some in the peasant's hodden-gray go by, 

Some in forlomest prisons darkly yearning 

For earth and grass, the dove's wing and the sky^ 



They sleep — but what sweet things they have been 
making. 

By golden moons, to give you a surprise — 
Eeat slower, little hearts with wonder aching, 

Keep in the dark yet, all you eager eyes ! 

The fairies sleep. But their high lord and master 
Keeps wide-awake, and watches every hearth ; 

Great waters freeze that he may travel faster — 
He puts a girdle round about the earth ! 



" One sails to wake a world that has been lying, 
HM in its leaves, far in the lonesome West, 

In an enchanted sleep, with strange winds sighing, 
Among the strange flowers in her dreaming breast 

" And One — I held Him first — the immortal Sfxan? 
ger! 

I smell, to-night, the frankincense and myrrh j 
I see the star-led wise men and the manger ; 

And his own Mother — I remember her 1 



" But — Where's my cloak ? Is this a time for sorrow ? " 
. . . And Where's the story, do ask of me ? 

To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow ! 

And shall you have it then ? Why — we shall see I 



zs 



A rOUNG INQUIRER. 




A Y O U N G I N O U I R E R 

By Charlotte Mellen Packard. 

HOW does life look behind the Hill ? 
The earth spins round, the mountain is still 
Men and women, they come and they go, 
Children play in the valley below, 
Winds are roaring, or winds are whist, 
Sunbeams pass, there is rain and mist. 
The world we know is a bright world still — 
But ah, for the other behind the Hill ! 

All the suns I have ever seen 

Peeped from over a mountain screen. 

Stretched a finger of rosy light 

Through some crevice to paint " Good-night ; " 

Up the darkness the great round moon 

Floated by like a red balloon, 

Hung and glittered awhile, until 

It went to the people behind the Hill. 

But most I dream of the unknown sea 
Where brave ships hasten like birds set free, 
Where plunging breakers ride high and loud 
Till the sailor is lost between wave and cloud. 
Oh, the sunny lands, and the frozen zone. 
The forests where never a man is known ! 
There are wonders and wonders waiting still 
I'or a boy who has never looked over the Ilil! 



/^^ *-■ ^..tiiMJU 



Voices are calling me day by day — 
I listen, and wonder whatever they say / 
The valleys are pleasant, and days are long 
With play and study, with work and song — 
But a boy keeps planning for other things, 
There's room in his restless body for wings. 
And fancy will never fold them until 
He sees for himself what is over the Hill. 



ON CHRIST DA Y NIGHT. 



39 



ON CHRIST-DAY NIGHT, 



By Nora Perry. 




STATELY mansion, 

bright and gay 
With festal Hght, made 

darkness day 
Far up and down the dusky 
street 
That Christmas night, while hurry- 
ing feet 
Sped swiftly by, nor scarce delayed 
For all the dulcet sounds that 

strayed 
In merry measures from within, 



Where harp and flute and violin 
In soft accordance, wild and sweet. 
Made music for the dancers' feet. 
All silken-clad those feet that kept 
That time and tune, or lightly 
stept 

DULCET SOUNDS. From room to room, from stair to 
stair ; 
All silken-clad ; while standing there 
Shut from the summer warmth and cheer, 
The silken perfumed atmosphere 



Of wealth and ease, a little maid 
With beating heart, yet unafraid, 
Enchanted, watched the fairy scene 
Between the curtains' parted screen. 
The fierce north wind came sweeping past 
And shook her with its wintry blast ; 
The frosty pavement of the street 
Chilled to the bone her ill-clad feet ; 



Yet moment after moment fled 
And there she stood, with lifted head, 
Her eager eyes, as in a trance, 
Fixed on the changes of the dance. 



Her eager ears still drinking in 
The strains of flute and violin ; 
And still, as sped the moments paXc, 
Colder and colder swept the blast. 




M^iiiiiiiajiiiiaiiiBiiiiiiiiaiEiaii:: 

A31S asr KE2: COLD LIPS DK 



i*ut littTe heed had sfie, or cait . 

Her glance upon one vision fair. 

One vision, one, beyond the rest — 

A girl with roses on her breast. 

And with a look upon her face, 

The sweet girl-face of Heaven's own grace, 

As through the dance she smiling led 

Her youthful guests, with airy tread. 



4° 



ON CHRIST DA V NIGHT. 



" Ah, would she smile on me like this 
And would she give me kiss for kiss 
If I could stand there at her side ? " 
The wistful watcher softly cried. 
Even as she spoke she closer crept, 
Upon the broad low terrace stept, 
And nearer leaned. — Just then, just there, 
A street lidit sent a sudden flare 



Across her face. — One startled glance. 
And from the changes of the dance, 
With beating heart and eyes dilate, 
■The girlish mistress of the fete 
Sprang swiftly forth. —A moment more 
And through the window's opened door 
Another guest was ushered in. 
Her lip was pale, her cheek was thin, 



No costly robe of silk and lace 
Apparelled her, and on her face 
And in her dark bewildered eyes 
A shock of fear and shamed surprise 



Did wildly, desperately gleam 
While here and there, as in a dream, 
She vaguely heard, yet did not hear, 
The sound of voices far and near. 



She tried to speak : some word she said 

Of all her troubled doubt and dread, 

Some childish word — " what would they 

do?" 
Then all at once a voice rang through 
Her troubled doubt, her troubled fear, 
" What will they do, why, this — and this ! " 
And on her cold lips dropped a kiss. 



And round her frozen figure crept 

A tender clasp. — She laughed and wept 

And laughed again, for this and this, 

This tender clasp, this tender kiss. 

Was more than all her dream come true . 

Was earth with Heaven's light shining through) 

Was Christ's own promise kept aright — 

His word fulfilled on Christ-day night ! 




ATTEB. XUE FKIS, 



SONG OF SFJilNG. THE TRUE STORY OF A STORM. 



43 



SONG OF SPRING. 



INVISIBLE hands from summer lands 
Have plucked the icicles one by one ; 
And shy little lifters, away from the sun, 
Lain hold oh the roots of the grass in the sands , 
And O, and O, 
Where is the snow ! 
For the crow is calling, 
And showers are falling. 



Ho, willow and weed ! Each secret seed 
Is up, and out of its garments gray; 
The music of waters is heard in the mead ; 
And limping old winter is whither away? 
And O, and O, 
Where is the snow ! 
For the snake is crawling, 
And showers are falling. 




•' I WISH LOUIS HAD TOLD." 

THE TRUE STORY OF A STORM. 

{Told by a Little Boy who had heard '^ Stories from Homer") 



BY MRS. S. M. B. PIATT. 



"'T^HINGS floated away and the day turned dark, 
X And papa wasn't at home, you know ; 

And we didn't have any dove and ark, 
Or mountain where we could go. 

Like they used to have, some other year — 

Xliat time when the other flood was here. 



■' Then the wind kept blowing the oak-tree dowj 
(The Lord didn't know about the nest,) 

And I thought this world was going to drown. 
Did Louis tell you the rest? 

Well, if he didn't — well, then — well, 

I guess — Somebody will have to tell. 



44 



IN OCTOBER. A BIRD'S HOUSE. 



" Now, this was the way : One other night 
( I wish that Louis had told you then,) 

When the moon was red — why, we had a fight 
About one of Homer's men — 

( That is the reason we didn't speak.) 

He said that Hector wasn't a Greek ! 

" But I thought it wouldn't do to die 
And not say even one single word 
To Louis before I went to the sky ! 



So I told him about the bird, 
And the other birds out there in the nest 
That their mother hadn't even dressed ! 

" If it hadn't been for the rain, you see, 
We never could have been friends a^ain. 

And, who would I have to play with n.e — 
If i' jiad^.'t been for the rain ? 

And Louis said he was glad to speak. 

But he thought that Hector wasn't a Creek !* 



IN OCTOBER, 



By Mrs. L. C. Whiton. 



THERE are lingering south-winds softly blowing 
That to billowy waving the ripe grain bear ; 
There are dark-winged butterflies languidly going 

Floating through golden air : 
There are mists like vapor of incense burning, 

That are rolling away under skies that are fair; 
There are brown-faced sun-flowers dreamily turn- 
ing, 

Shaking their yellow hair. 

There are noisy bees that are tired of winging 

That are holding a court in some wild rose's heart; 
There are sudden thrills of the late sweet singing 
Of birds that are loth to depart , 



There are sunsets watching their own hot Islushes 

On the breast of the ocean burning awa)' , 
There are wind-swept pines in the infinite hubhes 
Whispering as they sway. 

There are changing ferns in the shadows lying, 

Where the undried dews in the noontides sta\' ; 
There are gorgeous-hued leaves where, rustlin, 
sighing. 

Quivering sunbeams play; 
There are tangled vines in the hollows trailing ; 

There are short sweet days that will not dela\- , 
There are nights that come with a moonlight vi-iling 
And Autumn going away. 



and 



A BIRD'S HOUSE, 



I FOUND a linle bird's house to-day. 
Round and brown and as soft as silk ; 
It was built in the prettiest, cunningest way, 

When the trees were as white as milk 
With apple-blossoms — do you remember. 
Or have you forgotten in chill December ? 



This was the way: there were straws and sticks. 
And the father-bird found them one by one ; 

Ai.d his wise little wife knew the way to fix 
The cosiesc little home under the sun. 

Out of straws and sticks and mud and clay; 

And she built the whole on a summer's day. 




i;" OCTOBER. 



CHILD AND THE GENTIAN. NOBODY. 



47 



THE CHILD AND THE GENTIAN. 

By Mrs. M. F. Butts. 




'see, I PUT MY EAR DOWN CLOSE.' 



GENTIAN, I have found you out: 
Now you must tell me true — 
See, I put my ear down close — 
Where did you get your blue ? 

"I found it, little one, here and there; 

It was ready made for me ; 
Some in your eyes, some in the sky, 

Some in the shining sea." 

How did you make the lovely fringe, 

Gentian, that you wear ? 
" I caught a hint from your dark eyelash. 

And a hint from your curly hair." 

How do you stand so straight and still, 
When they say that you are wild ? 

" Ah, that I learned in a different way. 
And not from any child ! " 



NOBODY. 

By Anna F. Burnham. 



NOB CD Y b'oke it ! It cracked itself, 
It was clear 'way up on the toppest shelf. 
I — p'rhaps the kitty-cat knows ! " 
Says poor little Ned, 
With his ears as red 
As the heart of a damask rose. 

"Nobody lost it ! I carefully 

Put my cap just where it ought to be, 

(No, 'tisn't ahind the door,) 

And it went and hid, 

Why, of course it did. 
For I've hunted an hour or more. 



" Nobody tore it ! You know things will 
Tear if you're sitting just stock-stone still I 
I was just jumping over the fence — 

There's some spikes on top, 

And you have to drop 
Before you can half commence." 

Nobody ! wicked Sir Nobody ! 

Playing such tricks on my children three i 

If I but set eyes on you, 

You should find what you've lost ! 

But that, to my cost, 
I never am like to do ! 



48 



THE SPELLS OF HOME. 




THE SPELLS OF. HOME. 

There blend the ties that strengthen 

Our hearts in hours of grief, 
The silver links thai lengthen 

Joy's visits when most brief, 

Bernard Barton^ 

1. 

By the soft green light in the woody glade, 
On the banks of moss where thy childhood 

played, 
By the household tree through which thine eye 
First looked in love to the summer sky, 
By the dewy gleam, by the ver)' breath 
Of the primrose tufts in the grass beneath, 
Upon thy heart there is laid a spell, 
Holy and precious — oh, guard it well ! 

II. 
By the sleepy ripple of the stream, 
Which has lulled thee into many a dream. 
By the shiver of the ivy leaves 
To ihe wind of morn at thy casement eaves, 



By the bee's deep murmur in the limes, 
By the music of the Sabbath chimes. 
By every sound of thy native shade. 
Stronger and dearer the spell is made. 



By the gathering round the winter hearth, 
When twilight called unto household mirth, 
By the fairy tale or the legend old, 
In that ring of happy faces told, 
By the quiet hour when hearts unite 
In the parting prayer and the kind good- 
night, 
By the smiling eye and the loving tone. 
Over thy life has the spell been thrown. 



And bless that gift, it hath gentle might, 
A guardian po\^■er and a guiding light, 



THE SPELLS OF TTOME. 



^9 



It hath led the freeman forth to stand 
In the mountain-battles of his land ; 
It hath brought the wanderer o'er the seas 
To die on the hills of his own fresh breeze ; 
And back to the gates of his father's hall 
It hath led the weeping prodigal. 



Yes ! when thy heart in its pride would stray 
From the pure first loves of its youth away — 
When the sullying breath of the world would 

come 
O'er the flowers it brought from its childhood's 

home — 

Think thou again of the woody glade, 

And the sound by the rustling ivy made 

Think of the tree by thy father's door, 

And the kindly spell shall have power once 

more ! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 




5° 



I JiNEW Br TEE SMOKE THAT SO GRACEFULLY CUHLED. 




The Queen. 

I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACEFULLY CURLED. 

I knew by the smoke that so grace- 
fully curled 
Above the green elms, that a cot- 
tage was near, 
And I said, " If there's peace to be 
found in the world, 
A heart that is humble might 
hope for it here ! " 

It was noon, and on flowers that 
languished around 
In silence reposed the voluptuous 
bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard 
not a sound 
But the woodpecker tapping the 
hollow beech tree. 



And " Here in this lone little 
wood," I exclaimed, 
" With a maid who was lovely to 
soul and to eye, 




HEART AND HOME. 



51 



Who would blush if I praised her, and weep 
if I blamed, 
How blest could I live, and how calm could 
I die ! 

" By the shade of yon sumach, whose red 
berry dips 



In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to 
recline. 
And to know that I sighed upon innocent 
lips. 
Which had never been sighed on by any but 
mine ! " 

Thomas Moore. 



HEART AND HOME. 




'Tis Home where'er the heart is 
Where'er its loved ones dwell. 

In cities or in cottages. 

Thronged haunts or mossy 
dell 



The heart's a ro\er ever, 
And thus on wave and wild 

T/;e maiden with her lover walks. 
The mother with her child. 



'Tis bright where'er the heart is ; 

Its fairy spells can bring 
Fresh fountains to the wilderness, 

And to the desert spring. 

There are green isles in each ocean, 
O'er which affection glides ; 

And a haven on each shore, 

lA-'hen love's the star that guides. 



'Tis free where'er the heart is ; 

Nor chains, nor dungeon dim. 
May check the mind's aspirings, 

The spirit's pealing hymn ! 

The heart gives life its beauty. 
Its glory and its power — 

'Tis sunlight to its rippling stream, 
And soft dew to its flower. 



SWEET HOME. 



He with short pang and slight 
Doth turn him from the checkered 

light 
Of the fair moon through his own 
forests dancing, 
Where music, joy, and love, 
Were his young hours entrancing : 
And where ambition's thunder-claim 

Points out his lot, 
Or fitful wealth allures to roam, 
There doth he make his home, 
Repining not. 



It is not thus with woman. The far 
halls, 
Though ruinous and lone. 
Where first her pleased ear drank a 
nursing mother's tone ; 
The home with humble walls, 
Where breathed a parent's prayer 

around her bed ; 
The valley where, with playmates 

true. 
She culled the strawberry, bright 

with dew ; 
The bower where Love her timid 

footsteps led ; 
The hearthstone where her children 
grew ; 
The damp soil where she cast 
The flower-seeds of her hope, and 
saw them bide the blast — 
Affection with unfading tint recalls, 
Lingering around the ivied walls. 
Where every rose hath in its cup a bee, 




Making fresh honey of remembered things, 
Each rose without a thorn, each bee bereft of 
stings. 

Mrs. Lydia H. Sigourney.' 



SWEET HOME. 



Look at that pretty hammock swung 

The boughs among ; 
In it beneath a feathery breast 
Young orioles in sheltered rest 
Toss safely between grass and sky. 
With the elm's soft whisper for lullaby. 
They, out of the countless birds of air, 
Have their homes there. 



On wooded plain or rough hill-side 

The foxes hide. 
Under the rocks and roots of trees 
Are wrought their cunning galleries. 
Where they can lie and hear the sound 
Of thwarted hunter and baffled hound. 
To rest in from the panting race 

A fitting place. 



TBE JOTS OF HOME. 



53.. 




But when the Son of man upon earth, 

Of lowly birth, 
Came with Love's gospel to mankind. 
To cure the sick and heal the blind. 
And even to raise to life the dead. 
He had not where to lay his head. 



No door to enter, no field to reap, 
No pillow to sleep. 

Think of his lonely sorrowing years — 
Think of his tears ! 

Think how even the bird or beast 

From the greatest down to rue very 
least. 

Had sense of comfort and peace some- 
where. 

Either in burrow or water or air ; 

Yet was there neither rocf nor bed 
For his dear head. 

So sweet the mere word " home," 'tis 
even 

One name for heaven ; 
And the many mansions there that 
stand 
With open door, that the weary hand 
Need not so much as knock, express. 
That he knew all of homelessness. 
So has he promised rest and home 
To all who come ! 

Clara Doty Bates. 




LiivE DEvvi. OF Morn and Lvenimu 



'the joys of home. 



Sweet are the joys of Home, 
And pure as sweet ; for they, 

Like dews of morn and evening, come 
To wake and close the day. 



The world hath its delights, 
And its delusions, too ; 

But home to calmer bliss invites, 
More tranquil and more true. 



54 



MY BOOKS. 



The mountain flood is strong, 

But fearful in its pride ; 
While gently rolls the stream along 

The peaceful valley's side. 

Life's charities, like light, 

Spread smilingly afar ; 
But stars approached, become more bright, 

And home is life's own star. 

The pilgrim's step in vain 

Seeks Eden's sacred ground! 

But in home's holy joys, again 
An Eden may be found. 

A glance of heaven to see, 

To none on earth is given ; 
And yet a happy family 

Is but an earlier heaven. 

Sir John Bowring. 

MY BOOKS 

I sat on in my chamber green. 

And lived my life, and thought my thoughts 

and prayed 
My prayers without the vicar ; read my books, 
Without considering whether they were fit 
To do me good. Mark, there. We get no 

good 
By being ungenerous even to a book, 
And calculating profits — so much help 
By so much reading. It is rather when 
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge 
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's pro- 
found 
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth — 
'T is then we get the right good from a book. 

I read much. What my father taught before 

Erom many a volume, love re-emphasized 

Upon the self-same pages. . . . 

Tut after I had read for memory, 

I read for hope. The path my father's foot 

Had trod me out, which suddenly broke off 

AVhat time he dropped the wallet of the flesh 



And passed), alone I carried on, and set 
My child-heart 'gainst the thorny underwood, 
To reach the grassy shelter of the trees. 

I read books bad and good — some bad and 

good 
At once : good aims not always make good 

books. . . 

Books, books, books ! 
I had found the secret of a garret room 
Piled high with cases in my father's name ; 
Piled high, packed large, — where creeping in 

and out 
Among the giant fossils of out my past. 
Like some small nimble mouse between the 

ribs 
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there. 
At this or that box, pulling through the gap. 
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy. 
The first book first. And how I felt it beat 
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark. 
An hour before the sun would let me read ! 
My books ! 

At last, because the time was ripe, 
I chanced upon the poets. 

As the earth 
Plunges in fury, when the internal fires 
Have reached and pricked her heart, and 

throwing flat 
The marts and temples, the triumphal gates 
And towers of observation, clears herseit 
To elemental freedom — thus, my soul. 
At poetry's divine first finger touch, 
Let go conventions and sprang up surprised. 
Convicted of the great eternities 
Before two worlds 

O life, O poetry, 
— Which means life in life ! cognizant of life 
Beyond this blood-beat, — passionate for truth. 
Beyond these senses, — poetry, my life. . . . 

But I could not hide 
My quickening inner life from those at watch, 
They saw a light at a window now and then, 
They had not set there. Who had set it 

there .' 
My father's sister started when she caught 



Mr BOOKS. 



55 



My soul agaze in my eyes. She could not 

say 
I had no business with a sort of soul, 
£ut plainly she objected — ard demurred, 



She said some times, " Aurora, have you done 
Your task this morning ? — Have you read 

that book ? 
And are you ready for the crochet here ? " 



• '%^jHf/4,1*S!'i 




'O Lire, O FoBTHvt" 



That souls were dangerous things to carry 

straight 
Through all the spilt saltpetre of the world. 



As if she said, "I know there's something 

wrong ; 
I know I have not ground you down enough 



^6 THE j^mnAnr. 

To flatten and bake you to a wholesome 

crust 
For household uses and proprieties, 
Before the rain has got into my barn 
And set the grains a-sprouting. What, you're 

green 
With out-door impudence ? You almost 

grow?" 
To which I answered, " Would she hear my 

task. 
And verify my abstract of the book, 



And should I sit down to the crochet-work ? 
Was such her pleasure ? " . . . Then 1 

sate and teased 
The patient needle till it split the thread. 
Which oozed from off it in meandering lace 
From hour to hour. I was not, therefore, sad ; 
My soul was singing at a work apart. 
Behind the wall of sense, as safe from harm 
As sings the lark when sucked up out of sight, 
In vortices of glory and blue air. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 




>::i iHK POKT MEETS HiS FAVORITB MUSB." 

THE LIBRARY. 



When the sad soul, by care and grief op- 
pressed, 

Looks round the world, but looks in vain, for 
rest. 

When every object that appears in view 

Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too ; 

Where shall affliction from itself retire ? 

Where fade away and placidly expire ? 

Alas ! we fly to silent scenes in vain ; 

Care blasts the honors of the flowery plain : 



Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam, 
Sighs through the grove and murmurs through 

the stream ; 
For when the soul is laboring ia despair 
In vain the body breathes a purer air : 
No storm-tossed sailor sighs for slumberfer 

seas, — 
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breezf^ 
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides 
Reflected woe, and o'er unruffled tides 



THE LIBRARY. 



57 



The ghost of every former danger glides. 
Thus in the calms of life we only see 
A steadier image of our misery ; 
But lively gales, and gently clouded skies 
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise ; 
And busy thoughts and little cares avail 
To ease the mind when rest and reason fail. 
When the dull thought, by no designs em- 
ployed, 
Dwells on the past, or suffered or enjoyed, 
We bleed anew in every former grief, 
And joys departed furnish no relief. 
Not hope herself, with all her flattering art, 
Can cure the stubborn sickness of the heart. 




''In the Calms of Life." 

The soul disdains each comfort she prepares, 
And anxious searches for congenial cares ; 
Those lenient cares, which with our own com- 
bined. 
By mixed sensations ease the afflicted mind, 
And steal our grief away, and leave their own 

behind ; 
A lighter grief ! which feeling hearts endure 
Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure. 



But what strange art, what magic can diS' 
pose 
The troubled mind to change its native woes ? 
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see 
Others more wretched, more undone than we.^ 
This ioois can do; — nor this alone; they 

give 
New views to life and teach us how to live. 
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they 

chastise, 
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise : 
Their aid they yield to all. They never shun 
The man of sorrows nor the wretch undone : 
Unlike the hard, the selfish and the proud. 
They fly not sullen from the suppliant 

crowd ; 
To tell to various people various 

things 
But show to subjects what they show 
to kings. 
Come, child of Care ! To make 
thy soul serene. 
Approach the treasures of the tranquiJ 

scene : 
Survey the dome, and as the doors 

unfold. 
The soul's best cure in all her cares, 

behold ! 
Where mental wealth the poor in 

thought may find, 
And mental physic the diseased in 

mind ; 
See here the balms that passion's 

wounds assuage ; 
See coolers here that damp the fire of 

rage; 
Here the alteratives, by slow degrees 

control 
The chronic habits of the sickly soul; 
And round the heart and o'er the aching head. 
Mild opiates here their sober influence shed. 
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude. 
And view composed this silent multitude : — 
Silent they are, but though deprived of sound, 
Here all the living languages abound ; 
Here all the lives no more ; preserved they 
I lie, 

Li tombs that open to the curious eye. 



^S TO MY UUSDAiVD. 

Blest be the gracious Power who taught man- 
kind 
To stamp a lasting image of the mind ; 
Beasts may convey and tuneful birds may 

sing, 
Their mutual feelings in the opening spring ; 
But man alone has skill and power to send 
JThe heart's warm dictates to the distant friend ; 
'T is his alone to please, instruct, advise 
Ages remote and nations yet to rise. 

In sweet repose when Labor's children 

sleep, 
When Joy forgets to smile and Care to weep. 
When Passion slumbers in the lover's breast, 
And Fear and Guilt partake the balm of rest, 
Why then denies the studious man to share 
Man's common good, who feels his common 

care ? 
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly 
Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power 

defy ; 
That after ages may repeat his praise, 
And fame's fair meed be his, for length of 

days. 
Delightful prospect when we leave behind 
A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind ! 
Wliich, born and nursed through many an 

anxious day 
Shall all our labor, all our care repay. 

Yet all are not these births of noble kind, 
Not all are children of a vigorous mind ; 
But where the wisest should alone preside, 
The weak would rule us and the blind would 

guide ; 
Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and 

show 
The poor and troubled source from whence 

they flow ; 
Where most he triumphs we his wants perceive, 
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve. 
But though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves 
This seat serene, and virtue's self approves — 
Here come the grieved a change of thought 

to find ; 
T'.ie curious here, to feed a craving mind ; 
Here the devout their peaceful temple choose ; 
And here the poet meets his favorite Muse. 
George Crabbe. 



TO MY HUSBAND. 



Books rule thy mind, so let it be ! 

Thy heart is mine, and mine alone 
What more can I require of thee ? 
Books rule thy mind, so let it be ! 
Contented with thy bliss I see, 

I wish a world of books thine own. 
Books rule thy mind, so let it be ! 

Thy heart is mine, and mine alone. 

Madame Julie Fertiault. 

THE OLD ANCESTRAL MANSION. 

Mark yon old mansion frowning through the 

trees. 
Whose hollow tuiTet wooes the whistling 

breeze. 
That casement, arched with i\'y's brownest 

shade. 
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed. 
The mouldering gateway strews the grass- 
grown court, 
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport ; 
When nature pleased, for life itself was new. 
And the heart promised what the fancy drew. 
See, through the fractured pediment revealed 
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured 

shield. 
The martin's old, hereditary nest: 
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest ! 
As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call ! 
O haste, unfold the hospitable hall ! 
That hall, where once in antiquated state, 
The chair of justice held the grave debate. 
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly 

hung, 
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung ; 
When round yon ample board, in due degree. 
We sweetened every meal with social glee. 
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling 

jest, 
And all was sunshine in each little breast. 
'Twas here we chased the slipper by the 

sound; 
And turned the blindfold hero round ana 

round. 
'Twas here, at eve, we formed our fairj' ring: 




'IS 1 GOIAO WITH YGU, MAMMA? 



THE OLD ANCESTRAL MANSION. 



6i 



And fancy fluttered on her wildest wing. 
Giants and genii chained each wondering ear ; 
And orphan-sorrows drew the ready tear. 
Oft with the babes we wandered in the wood, 
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood : 
Oft fancy-led, at midnight's fearful hour. 
With startling step we scaled the lonely tower; 
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep, 
Murdered by ruffian hands, when smiling in 

its sleep. 
Ye household deities ! whose guardian eye 
Marked each pure thought, ere registered on 

high; 
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground. 



On the dim window glows the pictured crest. 
The screen unfolds its many-colored chart. 
The clock still points its moral to the heart, 
That faithful monitor 'twas heaven to hear, 
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near: 
And has its sober hand, its simple chime, 
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time ? 
That massive beam, with curious carvings 

wrought, 
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive 

thought ; 
Those muskets cased with venerable rust ; 
Those once- loved forms, still breathing through 

their dust. 




' Oft with the Babes we Wandered in the Wood." 



And breathe the soul of Inspiration round. 
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend, 
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend. 
The storied arras, source of fond delight. 
With old achievement charms the 'wildered 

sight ; 
And still, with heraldry's rich hues impressed, 



Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast, 
Starting to life — all whisper of tlie past ! 
As through the garden's desert paths I rove 
What fond illusions swarm !n every grove ! 
How oft, when purple evening tinged the west, 
We watched the emmet to her grainy nest; 
Welcomed the wild bee home on weary wing, 



62 



THE OLD CLOCK. 



Laden with sweets, the choicest of the spring ! 
How oft inscribed, with Friendship's votive 

rhyme, 
The bark now silvered by the touch of time ; 
Soared in the swing, half pleased and half 

afraid, 
Through sister elms that waved their summer 

shade ; 
Or strewed with crumbs yon root-inwoven 

seat, 
To lure the redbreast from his 

lone retreat. 

Samuel Rogers. 

THE OLD CLOCK. 

Oh, the old, old clock of the 
household stock, 
Was the brightest thing and 
neatest ; 
Its hands, though old, had a touch 
of gold, 
And its chimes rang still the 
sweetest. 
'Twas a monitor, too, though its 
words were few, 
Yet they lived, though nations 
altered ; 
And its voice, still strong, warned 
old and young, • 
WTien the voice of friendsliip 
faltered. 
" Tick, tick," it said — " quick, 
quick to bed, 
For ten I've given warning; 
Up, up, and go, or else, you know, 
You'll never rise soon in the 
morning." 

A friendly voice was that old, old 
clock, 

As It stood in the comer smiling. 
And blessed the time with a merry chime, 

The winter hours beguiling ; 
But a cross old voice was that tiresome clock, 

As it called the daybreak boldly, 
When the dawn looked gray on the misty way 

And the early air blew coldly ; 
" Tick, tick " it said— " quick out of bed. 



For five I've given warning ; 
You'll neverhave health, you'll never get wealth, 
Unless you're up soon in the morning." 

Still hourly the clock goes round and round. 

With a tone that ceases never ; 
While tears are shed for bright days fled, 

And the old friends lost forever; 
Its heart beats on, though hearts are gone 




That warmer beat and younger; 
Its hands still move, though hands we love 

Are clasped on earth no longer ! 
"Tick, tick," it said — " to the churchyard bed. 

The grave hath given warning ; 
Up, up, and rise, and look to the skies, 

And prepare for the heavenly morniris,'^ 



JIf F HOMK 




63 



' Low IS Mv Porch, as 



MY HOME. 

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR A HOUSE IN 
THE GREEN PARISH OF DEVONSHIRE. 

Lord, thou hast given me a cell 

Wherein to dwell, 
A little house, whose humble roo£ 

Is weather proof ; 
Under the sparres of which I lie. 

Both soft and drie : 
Where thou, my chamber for to ward. 

Hast set a guard 
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep 

Me while I sleep. 
X,ow is my porch, as is my fate ; 

Both void of state ; 
And yet the threshold of my doore 

Is worn by the poore, 
Who hither come and freely get 

Good words or meat. 
Like as my parlour, so my hall 

And kitchen's small ; 



A little buttery, and therein 

A little byn. 
Which keeps my little loafe of 
bread 
Unchipt, unfled. 
Some sticks of thorn or briar 

Make me a fire, 
Close by whose loving coals I sit, 

And glow like it. 
Lord, I confesse too, when I dine, 

The pulse is thine. 
And all those other bits that bee 

There placed by thee ; 
The worts, the purslain and the 
messe 
Of water-cresse, 
Which of thy kindness thou hast 
sent ; 
And my content 
Makes those and my beloved 
beet 
More sweet. 
'Tis thou that crown'st my glitter- 
ing hearth 
With guiltless mirth. 
And giv'st me wassaile bowles to drink, 
Spiced to the brink. 
Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles my land, 
And gives me for my bushel sowne, 

Twice ten for one. 
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay 

Her egg each day, 
Besides my healthful ewes to bear 

Me twins each yeare ; 
The while the conduits of my kine 

Run creame for wine. 
All these and better thou dost send 

Me to this end. 
That I should render, for my part, 

A thankfulle heart, 
Which, fared with incense, I resigne 

As wholly thine ; 
But the acceptance, that must be, 
My Christ, by Thee. 

Robert Herrick. 



64 



CONSECRATION OF A NEW HOUSS. 




CONSECRATION OF A NEW HOUSE. 

I BLESS thy new-raised threshold : let us pray 
That never faithless friend, insulting foe, 
O'er this pure stone their hateful shadows 

throw : 
May the poor gather round it day by day. 
1 bless this hearth : thy children here shall 

play ; 
Here may their graces and their virtues blow; 
May sin defile it not; and want and woe 
And sickness seldom come, nor come to stay. 
I bless thy house. I consecrate the whole 
To God. It is His temple. Let it be 
Worthy of him, confided thus to thee. 
Man's dwelling, like its lord, enshrines a soul ; 
It hath great destinies, wherein do lie, 
Self-sown, the seed of immortality. 

Aubrey de Veee. 

A HOME. 

What is a home ? A guarded space 
Wherein a few, unfairly blest, 

Shall sit together, face to face, 

And bask and purr, and be at rest ? 

Where cushioned walls rise up between 
Its inmates and the common air, 

The common pain, and pad, and screen 
From blows of fate or winds of care? 

Where Art may blossom strong and free. 
And pleasure furl her silken wing. 



And every laden moment be 
A precious and peculiar thing ? 

And past and future, softly veiled 
In hiding mists, shall float and lie 

Forgotten half, and unassailed 
By either Hope or Memory, 

While the luxurious Present weaves 
Her perfumed spells untried, untrue, 

'Broiders her garments, heaps her sheaves. 
All for the pleasure of a few > 

Can it be this — the longed-for thing 
Which wanderers on the restless foam. 

Unsheltered beggars, birds on wing 

Aspire to, dream of, christen " Home ? '■" 

No. Art may bloom, and peace and bUss ; 

Grief may refrain and Death forget ; 
But if there be no more than this 

The soul of home is wanting yet. 

Dim image from far glory caught. 
Fair type of fairer things to be, 

The true home rises in our thought 
A beacon set for men to see. 

Its lamps burn freely in the night ; 

Its fire-glows unchidden shed 
Their cheering and abounding light 

On homeless folk uncomforted. 



TBE BONNIE WEE WELL. 
THE BONNIE WEE WELL. 



65 



1 


^ 


1 


fl 



HE bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae, 
That shinkles sae cauld in the sweet seniles o' da\ 
An' croons a laigh sang a' to pleasure itsel', 
As it jinks 'aeath the breckan and genty bluebell. 



The bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae 
Seems an image to me o' a bairnie at play ; 
For it springs frae the yird wi' a flicker o' glee, 
And kisses the flowers, while its ripples they pree. 



The bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae 
Wins blessings on blessings fu' monie ilk' day ; 
For the wayworn and wearie aft rest by its side, 
And man, wife, and wean a' are richly supplied. 



The bonnie wee well on the breist o' the brae, 
When the hare steals to drink in the gloamin' 

sae gray, 
Where the wild moorlan' birds dip their nebs 

and take wing. 
And the lark wets his whistle, ere mounting 

to sing. 



Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' the 

brae. 
My memory oft haunts thee by nicht and by 

day, 
For the friends I ha'e loved in the years that 

are gane, 
Ha'e knelt by the brim, and thy gush ha'e 

parta'en. 



Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' the 

brae, 
While I stoop to thy bosom, my thirst to 

allay, 



I will drink to the loved ones who come back 

nae mair, 
And my tears will but hallow thy bosom sae 

fair. 



Thou bonnie wee well on the breist o' the 

brae, 
My blessing rests with thee, wherever I stray ^ 
In joy and in sorrow, in sunshine and gloom, 
I will dream of thy beauty, thy freshness and 

bloom. 



In the depths of the city, midst turmoil and 

noise, 
I'll oft hear with rapture thy love-teaching 

voice. 
While fancy takes wing to thy rich fringe of 

green. 
And quaffs thy cool waters in noon's gowden 

sheen. 

Hugh MacDonalb, 



66 



TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 



TO A FAMILY BIBLE. 

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine, 

Chng reverently — of anxious looks beguiled, 

My mother's eyes, upon thy page 

divine. 
Each day were bent ; her accents grave- 
ly mild, 

Breathed out thy lore : whilst 

I, a dreamy cliild, 
Wandered on breeze-like fan- 
cies oft away, 
To some lone tuft of gleaming 
spring-flowers wild, 




^SoME Lone Tuft of Gl 



Y\^5^/7 Some fresh-discovered nook for 

woodland play, 
Some secret nest : — yet would 

the solemn Word 
At times, with kindlings of young 

wonder heard 



THE FIRESIDE. 



67 



Fall on my wakened spirit, there to be 

A seed not lost; — for which, in darker 

years, 
O book of Heaven ! I pour, with grateful 

tears, 
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee ! 



If solid happiness we prize, 
Within our breast this jewel lies. 

And they are fools who roam ; 

The world hath nothing to bestow 

From our own selves our bliss must flow, 

And that dear hut, our home. 




"AXy Mother's Eybs Ufon Thy Page Divine.' 



THE FIRESIDE. 

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd, 
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud. 

In folly's maze advance ; 
Though singularity and pride 
Be called our choice, we'll step aside, 

Nor join the giddy dance. 



From the gay world we'll oft retire 
To our own family and fire, 

Where love our hours employs ; 
No noisy neighbor enters here, 
No intermeddling stranger near, 

To spoil our heartfelt joys. 



Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow- 
ers, 

We, who improve his golden hours, 
By sweet experience know 

That marriage, rightly understood, 

Gives to the tender and the good 
A paradise below. 



Our babes shall richest comforts bring ; 
If tutored right they'll prove a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise ; 
We'll form their minds with studious 

care 
To all that's manly good and fair, 

And train them for the skies. 



A MIND CONTENT. 



While they our wisest hours engage, 
They'll joy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs ; 
They'll grow in. virtue every day, 
And thus our fondest loves repay, 

And recompense our cares. 



No borrowed joys, they're all our own, 
While to the world we live unknown, 

Or by the world forgot ; 
Monarchs ! we envy not your state ; 
We look with pity on the great. 

And bless our humbler lot. 



Our portion is not large, indeed ; 
But then, how little do we need ! 

For nature's calls are few ; 
In this the art of living lies. 
To want no more than may suffice, 

And make that little do. 



We'll therefore relish with content 
Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 

Nor aim beyond our power ; 
For, if our stock be very small ; 
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all, 

Nor lose the present hour. 



To be resigned when ills betide, 
Patient when favors are denied, 

And pleased with favors given : — 
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, 
This is that incense of the heart, 

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. 



We'll ask no long protracted treat. 
Since winter-life is seldom sweet 

But when our feast is o' er. 
Grateful from table we'll arise, 
Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes. 

The relics of our store. 



Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; 
Its checquered paths of joy and woe 

With cautious steps we'll tread ; 
Quit its vain scenes without a tear, , 
Without a trouble, or a fear. 

And mingle with the dead ; 



While conscience, like a faithful friend. 
Shall through the gloomy vale attend. 

And cheer our dying breath : — 
Shall, when all other comforts cease. 
Like a kind angel whisper peace, 

And smooth the bed of death. 

Nathaniel Cotton. 

A MIND CONTENT. 

Sweet are the thoughts that savor of content — - 

The quiet mind is richer than a crown ; 
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber 
spent — 
The poor estate scorns fortune's angry 
frown : 
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, 

such bliss, 
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss. 



The homely house that harbors quiet rest, 
The cottage that affords no pride or care, 

The mean that 'grees with country music best, 
The sweet consort of mirth and music bare. 

Obscured life sets down a type of bliss : 

A mind content both crown and kingdom is. 
Robert Green. 

A HEAVEN UPON EARTH. 

For there are two heavens, sweet, 
Both made of love, —one, inconceivable 
Even by the other, so divine it is ; 
The other far on this side of the stars. 
By men called Home, when some blest pail 

are met 
As we are now; sometimes in happy talk. 
Sometimes in silence (also a sort of talk, 



A HEAVEN UPON E ART EI. 



6g 



Where friends are matched) each at its gentle 

task 
Of book, or household need, or meditation. 
By summer moon or curtained fire in frost ; 
And by degrees there come, — not always 

come, 
Yet mostly, — other sma'l in 

mates there. 
Cherubic-faced, yet growinj, li l 

these two. 
Their pride and playmate: n t 

without meek fear. 
Since God sometimes to his \ i 

cherubim 
Takes those sweet cheek ■> ( f 

earth. And so 'twixt joy. 
And love and tears, and what- 
soever pain 
Man firmly shares with man, 

these two grow old ; 
And if indeed blest thoroughly,' 

they die 
In the same spot, and nigh tlie 

same good hour. 
And setting suns look heavenly 

on their grave. 
James Henry Leigh Hunt. 

THE FAMILY ALTAR. 

" Thy hr.me is with the humble. Lord ! 

The simple are thy rest, 
Thy lodging is in childlike hearts : 

Thou makest there thy nest." 

Faber. 

When all things thou hast made 

Thy wondrous love declare, 
V\'e would come now, our Father 
dear. 

To breathe a grateful prayer. 

In humble trust we come. 

Believing in thy Son, 
Conscious how often we have erred, - 

Of what we've left undone. 

Forgive our many sins, 
O Father, we implore ! 



And let thy holy presence still 
These erring feet restore. 

To-day we would be thine, 
Whate'er our trials he ; 




Other Small Inmates Therb.'* 



Earnest in everything to do 
Only what pleases thee. 

May all who love thy truth 

Unite with one accord. 
Converting nations in the name 

Of Jesus Christ, our Lord. 

Samuel B. Sumnes. 



7° 



MARCH, AND THE BOYS. 



MARCH, AND THE BOYS. 

BY MARY D. BRINE. 




>^ m 




MARCH, you're a jolly old fellow, I know; 
They may call you a blustering old chap- 
but you blow 
■*t|s3 For us boys and our kites, and ive don't care a fig 
;^ Foi the hats and the dust that go dancing a jig. 




Puff out, you old fellow, blow hard or blow high. 
At our kites you may bluster, and '■'■blow them sky- 
high!'' 
Nobody will find any fault but the girls — 
And they make a fuss 'cause you '■'•blowout their 
curls ! " 

^ You're just our own season — we've waited for you ; 
^ And our kites are all ready, so strong and so new! 
\ You jolly old fellow, \i you were a boy, 

Tou'd know why the March-month gives us such joy. 

it IS fun to stand high on the top of a hill, 
And pay out your string — let it run with a will; 
|i\ It lb fun to " hold hard " while your kite pulls away, 
j|l And the wind blows a gale! ah, kite-flying is gay. 

'^.The ladies complain that you '•'■blow off their veils f 
Hut never you mind, give no heed to their tales, 
l'L\ote yourself wholly to boys and their kites, 

j^ And trust to the boys to fight hard for your rights- 

J^For, March, you're the jolliest old fellow we kno\\ i 
,^And we like you the better the harder you blow ! 
r When you marched in upon us we gave you a shout, 
^And we'll miss you at last when 'tis time to march 
out! 





Standingf on the threshold, 

With her wakening heart an(' 
mind, 
Standing' on tlie threshold, 

With her childhood left behind 
The woman softness blending 

With the look of sweetsnrprise 
For life and all its marvels 

T'-it li^ht~ tbcrlcar ^hir cvo<i 



THE SILENT CHILDREN. 



n 



PUSSY WILLOW AND THE SOUTH ^V I N D 



FIE ! moping still by the sleepy brook, 
Little Miss Pussy, how dull you look! 

Prithee, throw off that cloak of brown, 

And give me a glimpse of your gray silk gown I 

My gray silken gown. Sir Wind, is done, 
But its golden fringes are not quite spun. 



What a slow little spinner! pray, pardon me, 
But I have had time to cross the sea. 

Haste forth, dear Miss Pussy! the sky is blue. 
And I've a secret to whisper to you. 

Nay, nay, they say Winds are cliangeful things, 
I'll wait, if you please, till the Bluebird sings. 



THE SILENT CHILDREN. 



THE light was low in the school-room. 
The day before Christmas day 
Had ended. It was darkening in the garden 
Where the silent children play. 



"I show you now a wonder — 
The audiphone," he said. 
He spoke in their silent language, 
Like the language of the dead. 



Throughout that House of Pity, 
The soundless lessons said, 

The noiseless sport suspended, 
The veiceless tasks all read, 



And answering spake the children, 
As the dead might answer too: 
"But what for us, O master? 
This may be good for you ; 



The little deaf-mute children, 
As still as still could be, 

gathered about the master. 
Sensitive, swift to see. 



"But how is our Christmas coming 
Out of a wise machine? 
For not like other children's 
Have our happy hours been; 



With their fine attentive fingers 
And their wonderful, watchful eyes — 

What dumb joy he would bring them 
For the Christmas eve's surprise! 



"And not like other children's 
Can they now or ever be !" 
But the master smiled through the halo: 
"Just trust a mystery. 



The lights blazed out in the school-room ; 

The play-ground went dark as death; 
The master moved in a halo; 

The children held their breath: 



"O my children, for a little, 
As those who suffer must! 
Great 'tis to bear denial. 
But grand it is to trust." 



74 



THE SILENT CHILDREN. 



Then to the waiting marvel 
The listening children leant : 

Like listeners, the shadows 
Across the school-room bent, 



" Nearer to Thee, oh, nearer. 
Nearer, my God, to Thee'" 

Awestruck, the silent children 
Hear the great harmony. 



While Science, from her silence 
Of twice three thousand years, 

Gave her late salutation 
To sealed human ears. 



Happy that Christmas evening : 
Wise was the master's choice, 

Who gave the deaf-mute children 
The blessed human voice. 




' I SHOW YOU NOW A WONDER, THE AUDIPHONE," HE SAID. 



Quick signalled then the master : 
Sweet sang the hidden choir — 

Their voices, wild and piercing, 
Broke like a long desire 



Wise was that other Master, 
Tender His purpose dim. 

Who gave His Son on Christmas, 
To draw us " nearer Him." 



That to content has strengthened. 
Glad the clear strains outrang: 

" Nearer to Thee, oh, neai-er!" 
The pitying singers sang. 



We all are but silent children. 
Denied and deaf and dumb 

Before His unknown science — 
Lord, if Thou wilt, we come ! 



THE CRAB-CATCHERS. 



n 




THE 
CRAB-CATCHERS. 

{A Summer-Day Serm.on,) 

By 
Mrs. Celia Thaxter. 



LOVELY space of tran- 
quil sea 
Under soft and brooding skies, 
Where the clouds lie peacefully, 
Where the white gull floats and 
flies. 



■V\'ith what joy on such a day 

Youth's glad pulses lightly beat ! 

Sweet the sun's caressing ray, 

And the warm wind's whisper sweet. 



Just to live and see and hear, 

That is quite enough delight. 
Winds and waves to charm the ear, 

Sky and sea to fill the sight. 

Just to live, such bliss may bring- 
Why should taking life away 

From the smallest living thing 
Help the beauty of the day ? 

Ah, my boys, 'tis sweet to live — 

Just to live ! I wonder why 
Taking what you may not give 

Should make pleasure's heart beat high ! 

Listen ! — If upon the sand 
Where your naked feet are set, 

As you unsuspecting stand, 

What if — just to pay a debt — 

One of these unhappy crabs 

Sought your unprotected feet. 
Gave you gashes, pricks and stabs : 

Would you find such pastime sweet ? 



7» 



THE VOICE OF THE CHESTNUT TREE. 



Ah, you give so thoughtlessly 

Such unnecessary pain ! 
If you cannot let them be, • 

Why thus torture them in vain ? 

Death at last ends each and all; 

But does even a crab deserve 
That such torment should befall 

Shrinking flesh and outraged nerve ? 

Threaded on this barbarous string. 
Quivering claws outstretching wide. 



Heavily they drop and swing 
O'er the clear and placid tide. 

And for me the picture's charm — 
Floating bird and careless boy, 

Summer's peace, and warmth and balm ■ 
Does this cruelty destroy. 

Thick about you pleasures throng, 
Happy children, everywhere : 

Do no helpless being wrong, 
God's dumb, piteous creatures spare! 



THE VOICE OF THE CHESTNUT TREE. 



BY MRS. M. F. BUTTS. 



I REMEMBER an April day; 
After many pains 
A sunbeam shone on my branches bare, 
And the sap stirred in my veins. 

I remember a morning in May ; 

Ah ! then, indeed, I was blest , 
I had soft green leaves, and a little bird came 

And built on my bough a nest. 

I remember a day in June ; 

It was sunshine over and under. 
Four blue eggs changed into baby birds — 

O, wasn't that a wonder ! 

I fluttered my leaves like fans 

To keep the little ones cool ; 
They had such a pretty cradle-bed, 

Only it was too full. 

But they grew so fast — alas ! 

Why do little things grow ? 
I wanted to keep them close to me, 

They were so dear, you know. 



They fluttered out of the nest — 

Yes, I remember that day _: 
They didn't stop to say " good-bye " 

As they followed their mother away. 

The nest looked lonesome enough ; 

But perhaps it was all for the best. 
For, at last, I lost all my pretty leaves 

And I couldn't shelter the nest. 

I remember another day ; 

1 heard loud ringing words 
And children's laughter, sweeter, I said. 

Than the singing of my birds. 

And they praised the chestnut tree. 
Though it was old and bare ; 

My boughs were full, and to ripen fruit 
Is better than to be fair. 

The winds are piercing cold ; 

The snow comes out of the west ; 
But I think another spring will come. 

And, perhaps, another nest. 



UNSA T I SPIED, 8 1 



UNSATISFIED. 



By Adelaide G. Waters. 

THERE was a little chicken that was shut up in a shell, 
He thought to himself, " I'm sure I cannot tell 
What I am walled in here for — a shocking coop I find, 
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 

He went out in the barnyard one lovely morn in May, 
Each hen he found spring-cleaning in the only proper way ; 
" This yard is much too narrow — a shocking coop I find, 
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 

He crept up to the gateway and slipped betwixt a crack, 
The world stretched wide before him, and just as widely back ; 
"This world is much too narrow — a shocking coop I find, 
Unfitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind." 

" I should like to have Ideals, I should like to tread the stars, 
To^et the Unattainable, and free my soul from bars ; 
I should like to leave this dark earth and some other dwelling find, 
More fitted for a chicken with an enterprising mind. 

** There's a place where ducks and pleasure-boats go sailing to and fro, 
There's one world on the surface and another world below." 
The little waves crept nearer and, on the brink inclined. 
They swallowed up the chicken with an enterprising mind. 



BOB'S PETTICOATS. 



c^^ 




TWAS the night before Christmas," and little " You coaxed her," he cried, " and it's all for your 
Bob Moore sake. 

Stood tugging the bell at his own father's door I know you just want to go off to a wake ! " 
And crying, " You Mary Ann, let me in quick ! " 

" Yis, darlint," said she, "but it's naughty to kick." Then, finding his mother, he threw his brown head 

In her lap, and between his sobs dolefully said, 

*• It's time fur yer supper, too, Bobby," she said. " I'll never go out on the sidewalk again ; 

• Yer mother just towld me ter put yer ter bed." The fellows keep calling me ' Sweet Sarah Jane ! ' *" 



82 



BOB'S PETTICOATS. 



Now Mamma Moore's taste and his own were 

at strife; 
His pretty kilt skirts were the plague of his life, 
And he'd soaped his brown ringlets to take out 

the curl. 
For it quite broke his heart to look so like a 

girl! 

But mamma long noted her little boy's grief, 
And her dear loving heart had been planning 

relief ; 
For she knew, without proof of the tear or the 

sob. 
That life's load was too big for the shoulders 

of Bob. 

"'Twill be Christmas to-morrow," she said as 
she heard. 

" Think how jolly, my boy !" But she breathed 
not a word 

Of the cute little suit in her own bureau drawer 

That had come from the tailor the evening be- 
fore. 

" Be a man, Bob," she added. '' My own 

darling son 
Must be brave. Dry your eyes — they were 

only in fun!" 
" I do try," he moaned, " to be brave as I can, 
But a fellow in petticoats can't be a man!" 

Then mamma, in his ringlets hiding a smile. 

Told many a story his grief to beguile; 

And he, pleading for "Ten Little Niggers" 

again. 
Soon forgot all the trouble of " Sweet Sarah 

Jane." 

That night when his father had chuckled to see 
Bob's stocking stuffed tight as a stocking could 

be. 
He took the great shears in his hand, and he 

crept 
To the side of the crib where his little boy 

slept — 

For his father had said, when his mother had 

plead 
To keep the brown curls on the precious brown 

head, 
" The boy's nearly six, and, my darling, tut, 

tut, 



There's no use in talking, his curls should be 

cut!" 

Said mamma, " They're so lovely I couldn't 

cut one! 
You must do it yourself if the thing's to be 

done!" 
So that was the reason papa held the shears. 
While mamma held her handkerchief over her 

tears! 

Snip clip! The bright rings on the white 

pillow fell ; 
How solemn the scene only mothers can tell; 
Till at last by a very slight twisting and twirl 
Papa cut Bob's last and his hindermost curl. 

Then mamma laid them all in a book on the 

shelf 
To cry over softly when all by herself, 
And exchanged his kilt suit, and his petticoats 

too, 
For jackets and trousers of naviest blue. 

After pressing a kiss on the warm rosy cheek 
She left him there, looking so quiet and meek. 
While she slowly and wearily went to her bed. 
To dream that her own little Bobby 'was dead! 

But he wasn't! Next morning he thumped at 

her door 
Crying, " Now let me in, for it's me, Bobby 

Moore!" 
But before mamma reached it the door was 

flung wide, 
And when she saw Bobby she laughed till she 

cried. 

The jacket and trousers had made him so tall 
That seen by the early dim light in the hall, 
With his little bare feet and his funny cropt 

head, 
" The boy's none of mine!" she could almost 

have said. 

"Mamma, please," he cried, "will you telS 

Mary Ann 
To give me my breakfast as soon as she can? 
1 want to go out on the sidewalk again, 
And punch them for calling me 'Sweet Sarah 

Jane.'" 



LITTLE BRIDGET'S CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 



'^i 




LITTLE BRIDGET LIVED IT OVEK, SMELT AGAIN THE SWEET, KED CLOVER 



LITTLE BRIDGET'S CHRISTMAS FLOWERS, 



By Lucy Larcom. 



THROUGH the bleak December day 
Little pale-faced Bridget lay 
On her shabby trundle bed, 
Covered with a threadbare spread. 



Little Bridget lay alone, 
Trying not to cry or moan 
For her mother, who must stay 
Out at work the livelong day. 



Down the dim and dingy wall 
Scarce a sunbeam crept at all. 
Or if one astray did come, 
Never seemed it quite at home. 



No one by her bedside sat : 
Rusty stove and ragged mat, 
Chair and table, window, door. 
Her companions ; nothing more. 



84 



LITTLE BRIDGET'S CHRISTMAS FLOWERS. 



Poor the room was, poor and plain ; 
But the narrow window-pane 
Let her out into free air, 
Into landscapes wide and fair. 

Out beyond the dreary street 
Sped her fancy's flying feet. 
Over hillside, meadow, dell — 
Ah ! she knew it all so well ! 

Once, when summer days were long, 
Once, when she was brisk and strong. 
Kind hands bore her far away 
Into the green fields to play. 

Oh, the happy Country Week, 
When the children went to seek 
Flowers and sunshine on the hills, 
Far away from city ills ! 

Little Bridget lived it over — 
Smelt again the sweet, red clover. 
Watched the bright-eyed squirrels gray, 
Fed the birds, and tossed the hay. 

All the beautiful wild flowers 
Came to cheer her lonesome hours ; 
Smiling, one by one, they came, 
Blossonis she had learned by name. 

Hardback, with its pale, pink spire ; 
Cardinals, clothed in crimson fire ; 
Golden daisies, through the bars 
Shining up at her, like stars. 

Once more on the river's breast 
Large white lilies swayed in rest ; 
Waved for her the meadows sweet ; 
Pussy-clover brushed her feet. 

Once again her footsteps turn 
Towards the woodlands, fresh with fern. 
Up the hill, and down the lane — 
'Twas the Country Week again. 

Little Bridget's eyes were bright 
When her mother came at night : 
" Thoughts have wings," she said, "and I 
With them through the window fly. 



" I forget the cold," she said, 
" I forget my aching head. 
While I wander long, long hours, 
As I used to, gathering flowers." 

Brighter little Bridget's eyes 
Shone with wonder and surprise, 
Gazing on her window-pane 
When the morning dawned again. 

Who had been there in the night 
Tracing, all in outlines white. 
Blossoms, ferns, and feathery grass, 
On her little square of glass .'' 

Nodding harebells, daisy stars. 
Pine-clad cliffs, and even the bars 
That she used to clamber through, 
Into fields where lilies grew ? 

Down the chill, gray dawning fell 
Echoes of a Christmas bell. 
Little Bridget scarce could speak, 
But a flush suffused her cheek. 

And her heart with joy grew faint : — 
" Mother, did the angels paint 
Flowers and ferns I used to see 
For a Christmas gift to me .-' 

" Something more than flowers they seem ; 
Mine in many a hungry dream. 
Things like these have been ; they grow 
In the fields of heaven, I know. 

" In my dreams they bloom, so fair! 
And the little children there 
With me wondrous blossoms seek : 
Heaven is like the Country Week ! " 

Happy Bridget ! more than health, 
More than luxury or wealth — 
Hers the blessed gift to find 
Beauty, where the world is blind. 

And her angel-guides they were, 
Who in summer went with her, 
Beauty's secret to explore 
One glad week, by hill and shore. 



THE LITTLE QUEEN. 



85 



Heaven's great gates are open here ; 
Angels far and angels near 
Toward the little children lean, 
Winning them to pastures green. 



And no grand cathedral shows 
Windows half so fine as those 
Little Bridget gazed upon 
In the cold, white Christmas dawn. 



For the heavenly artists brought 
Their own seeing to her thought ; 
Taught her from her heart to paint ; 
Little Bridget, baby saint ! 




MY tasks are over for the day, 
Over at last and I am free ! 
No girl in all the land, they say, 
Has so mucli study, so little play 
As I, the little Queen, dear me ! 



Then I played the harp till my fingers stung, 

That tiresome adagio, minor C ; 
And then the piano, and then I sung ; 
Next the doctor came to examine my tongue. 

And ordered a horrible dose for me. 

Then the hour of sums, the worst of all, 

Such long, long sums in the Rule of Three ; 
And the dance to practise for the ball, 
When I was so tired I could hardly crawl, 
And Ancient and Modern History I 



Firrt came my French and then my Greek, 

And then my German — that makes three! 
The one to read, and the others to speak, 
And two are modern, and one antique, 
And I hate them all most fervently. 



And once I paused and looked about 

And missed my answer, for a bee 
Caught in a flower-cup just without 
Was making a furious burr and rout — 
Then how my master looked at me ! 



86 



PROPHECIES. 



" Your Majesty is much to blame 

To heed such trivial things," said he; 

And all my ladies said the same. 

I felt my cheeks grow hot with shame, 
So solemnly they looked at me. 

They tell me that throughout the land 
The other children envy me, 

Because I am so rich and grand : 

I cannot, cannot understand 
Why people judge so foolishly. 

The other children shout and run 
And play together full of glee; 

I never have a bit of fun, 

There are no games for only one — 
Nobody ever plays with me ! 



My ladies duly bend and wait 

And serve me soft on bended knee, 
Put off and on my robes of state, 
And bathe and brush and curl and plait. 
But no one ever kisses me ! 

I am the Queen, and I am told 

That the whole land belongs to me, 
Mine to up-bear and rule and hold, 
And I am only twelve years old. 
Only a little girl you see ! 

If I might change for a few days. 

And just a common child could be, 
To live in common happy ways 
With easy tasks and easy plays 
And no one by to chide or see — 



The other children go up-stairs 

After their merry nursery-tea, 
Their mothers brush and comb their hairs, 
And tuck them in, and hear their prayers — 

How pleasant all those things must be! 



I viight perhaps come back and class 
Myself as happiest- — it might be: 

But that will never come to pass, 

I am the little Queen, alas ! 
And there is no escaoe for me I 



PROPHECIES 



By Katharine Lente Stevenson. 



LITTLE blue egg, in the nest snug and warm. 
Covered so close from the wind and the 
storm, 
Guarded so carefully day after day. 
What i3 your use in this world now, pray ? 
" Bend your head closer ; my secret I'll tell : 
There's a baby-bird hid in my tiny blue shell." 

Little green bud, all covered with dew, 
Answer my question and answer it true ; 
What were you made for, and why do you stay 
Clinging so close to the twig all the day ? 
" Hid in my green sheath, some d^y to unclose. 
Nestles the warm, glowing heart of a rose." 



Dear, little baby -girl, dainty and fair, 

Sweetest of flowers, of jewels most rare, 

Surely there's no other use for you here 

Than just to be petted and played with, you dear! 

" Oh a wonderful secret I'm coming to know. 

Just a baby like me, to a woman shall grow." 

Ah, swiftly the bird from the nest flies away, 
And the bud to a blossom unfolds day by day. 
While the woman looks forth in my baby-girl's eyes, 
Through her joys and her sorrows, her tears and 

surprise — 
Too soon shall the years bring this gift to her cup, 
God keep her, my woman who's now growing up 1 



THE EVENING HEARTSSTONE. 
THE EVENING HEARTHSTONE. 

Gladly now we gather round it, 

For the toiling day is done, 
And the gay and solemn twilight 
Follows down the golden sun. 
Shadows lengthen on the pavement, 

Stalk like giants through the gloom, 
Wander past the dusky casement,. 
Creep around the fire-lit room. 

Draw the curtain, close the shutters. 

Place the slippers by the fire ; 
Though the rude wind loudly mutters, 
What care we for wind-sprite's ire ? 

What care we for outward seeming ? 

Fickle Fortune's frown or smile ? 
If around us love is beaming, 

Love can human ills beguile. 
'Neath the cottage-room and palace, 

From the peasant to the king. 
All are quaffing from life's chalice 
Bubbles that enchantment bring. 

Grates are glowing, music flowing 
From the lips we love the best ; 
Oh, the joy, the bliss of knowing 
There are hearts whereon to rest ! 

Hearts that throb with eager gladness — 

Hearts that echo to our own — 
While grim care and haunting sadness 

Mingle ne'er in look or tone. 
Care may tread the halls of daylight, 
Sadness haunt the midnight hour. 
But the weird and witching twilight 

Brings the glowing hearthstone's dower. 
Altar of our holiest feelings ! 

Childhood's well-remembered shrine ! 
Spirit-yearnings — soul-revealings — 
Wreaths immortal round thee twine ! 

A HYMN FOR FAMILY WORSHIP. 

Saviour of them that trust in thee, 

Once more with supplicating cries, 
We lift the heart and bend the knee, 

And bid devotion's incense rise. 



87 



For mercies past we praise thee. Lord, 
The fruits of earth, the hopes of heaven ; 

Thy helping arm, thy guiding Word, 

And answered prayers, and sins forgiven. 

Whene'er we tread on danger's height 
Or walk temptations slippery way, 

Be still, to steer our steps aright, 

Thy Word our guide, thine arm our stay. 



Be ours thy fear and favor still, 
United hearts, imchanging love ; 

No scheme that contradicts thy will, 
No wish that centres not above. 



And since we must be parted here, 

Support us when the hour shall come ; 

Wipe gently off the mourner's tear, 
Rejoin us in our heavenly home. 

Henry Alford, 



DOMESTIC PEACE. 

Tell me on what holy ground 
May Domestic Peace be found — 
Halcyon Daughter of the skies ! 
Far on fearful wings she flies, 
From the pomp of sceptered state. 
From the rebel's noisy hate, 
In a cottaged vale she dwells 
Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honour's meeker mien, 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears, 
Sorrow, smiling through her tears. 
And, conscious of the past employ, 
Memory, bosom-spring of jov. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



OUR FIRESIDE EVENING HYMN. 

Hither, bright angels, wing your flight, 
And stay your gentle presence here ; 

Watch round and shield us through the night 
That every shade may disappear. 



S8 



OUR FIBESIVJi; EVENING HYMN. 



How sweet, when Nature claims repose, 
And darkness floats in silence nigh, 

To welcome in, at daylight's close, 

Those radiant troops that gem the sky ! 



The native feelings strong, the guileless ways ; 
What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
Ah ! though his worth unknown, far happier 
There, I ween ! 




' Hither, Bright Angels, W 



To feel that unseen hands we clasp. 

While feet unheard are gathering round. 

To know that we in faith may grasp 

Celestial guards from heavenly ground ! 

Oh, ever thus, with silent prayer 

For those we love, may night begin, — 

Reposing safe, released from care. 
Till morning leads the sunlight in. 

James Thomas Fields. 

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO R. AIKEN, ESQ. 

*' Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor." 

GRAY. 

My loved, my honored, much respected 

friend ! 
No mercenary bard his homage pa}'s ; 
With honest pride I scorn each selfish end : 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 

praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 
The lowly train in life's sequestered scene ; 



November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh ; "■ 
The shortenmg winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh ; 
The blackening trains o' craws to their re- 
pose; 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes. 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, — - 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend. 
And weary, o'er the moor his course does 
hameward bend. 

At length his lonely cot appears in I'iew, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ; 

The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher " 

through 
To meet their dad, wi' fiichterin noise an' 

glee. 
His wee bit ingle,^ blinking bonnil}'. 
His clean hearthstane, his thriftie wifie's 

smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his 

toil. 

1 Moan. 2 Stagger. 3 Fire or fireplace. 




©vet t^c si^i7sct. oi'ct lije mooij 

^j^t.faL, evet all bat 
Stvecfiitig ori (toitj, gtat to stax.! 

eKo, no' low'.lovi', 
Sweeping daisies ^^^h "ly !'''*< 

Slow- slow — slow sloiV. 



g Vj gaze's ny Jherie. atjb I ahj sKyzg! 

if Swing, siiig! swin^, sins! 

Jjon'. I^i^fj , IJ^ie I JTy^ 
Ji'iKz a biib 'Iji-oagf^ s^nny s^ ! 

y^tec, ficc , oVci life lea., 
01 ex tljc rjountain, ovti, tlj^c gcat 

o 

*?.L]3, ctoWrj, u[3 atj^S J10W7, 

III lllft '^'''^'■'^'l 'S '^jy ^° Ison&oi^ lrow>^? 

Closej'oui eyes - atjb T7oi^you aic tfjctc! 




THE COTTKE'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



91 



Belyve' the elder ba'irns come drapping m, 
At service out, amang the farmers roun' : 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie ' 
rin 
A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a bran new 
gown, 
Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship 
be. 



Their masters' an' their mistresses' com- 
mand 
The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent 
hand. 
All' ne'er, tho' o' sight, to jauk or play: 
" An' O, be sure to fear the Lord ahvay ! 
An' mind, your duty duly morn and night! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, 
Implore his counsel and assisting might: 
They never sought in vain that sought the 
Lord aright ! " 




" The Shoetbhing Dav is Drawing Near a Close." 



Wi' joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet. 
An, each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : ^ 
The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed 

fleet; 
Each tells the uncos'* that he sees or hears : 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 
Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother wi' her needle an' her shears. 
Gars * auld claes look amaist as weel's the 

new; 
The father mixes a wi' admonition due. 



But hark ! a rap comes gently to the 

door, 
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 
To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek: 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 

name. 



I By and by. 
4 News, 



2 Careful. 
5 MaVes. 



3 Inquires. 
6DibgeDt. 



92 



While Jenny hafflins' is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleased the mother hears it's nae wild 
worthless rake. 



TRE GOTTEIi'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

the hallan' snugly chows her 



VVi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben^ 
A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; 
Ulithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 

kye ;' 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy. 
liut blate* and laithfu'/ scarce can weel 

behave ; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae 

grave ; 
Weel pleased to think her bairn's respected 

like the lave.* 

O hap;~y love ! where love like this is found ! 
O heartfelt raptures 1 bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly j)leasure 

spare, 
One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
T'ls when a youthful, loving, modest pair 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 

evening gale." 

Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, 
A wretch, a villain, lost to love and truth. 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? 
Curse on his perjured arts, dissembling 

smooth ! 
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? 
Is there no pity, no relenting truth. 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 

child .' 
Then paints the ruined rnaid, and their dis- 
traction wild ? 

But now the supper crowns their simple 

board. 
The healsome parritch,' chief o' Scotta's food ; 
The soupe their only hawkie' doi-s afford. 



That 'yont 

cood : '° 
The dame brings forth in complimentaj 

mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hained" kebbuck" 

fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell. 
How 'twas a towmond" auld, sin' lint was i' 

the bell." 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 
They round the ingle form a circle wide ; 
The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace, 
The big ha' Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, 
His lyart haffets" wearing thin an' bare ; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion 

glide. 
He wales" a portion with judicious care ; 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with 

solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest 

aim: 
Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures 

rise. 
Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; 
Or noble " Elgin " beets" the heavenward 

flame. 
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays ; 
Compared with these, Italian thrills are tame. 
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 
How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 
With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire, 
Or Job's pathetic plaint and wailing cry ; 



r Half 




2 Tnto the spence or parlo 


r. 3 Cows. 


4 Bashful. 




5 Sheepish. 


6 Rest. 


7 Porridee. 




S -A, white-faced cow. 


q Wall. 


o Chews he 


r cud. 


1 1 Saved 


12 Cheese. 


■>, Twelve mc 


uih. 


,4 Flax was in flower. 


15 Gray locki 


9 Chooses. 




17 Kindles. 





TllK COTTEB'S SATUIWAY NIGHT. 



93 



Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire : 

Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; 
How He who bore in heaven thi second name 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head ; 
How his first followers and servants sped ; 
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land ; 
How he who lone in Patmos banished 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand. 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced 
by Heaven's command. 

Then, kneeling down, to Heaven's eternal 

King 
The saint, the father and the husband prays ; 
Hope springs " exulting on triumphant 

wing," ' 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 
No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear. 
Together hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear. 
While circling i.me moves round in an eternal 

sphere. 

Compared with this, how poor Religion's 

pride, 
In all the pomp of method and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide. 
Devotion's every grace, except the heart ! 
The Power incensed, the pageant will desert. 
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart. 
May hear, well pleased, the language of the 

soul; 
And in his Book of Life the inmates poor 

enroll. 

Then homeward all take ofT their several way ; 
The youngling cottagers retire to rest ; 
The parent pair their secret homage pay. 
And proffer up to heaven the warm request 
That He who stills the raven's clamorous 
nest, 



And decks the lily fair in flowery pride. 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide ; 
But, chiefl}', in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur 

springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 

abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
" An honest man's the noblest work of God ; "• 
And certes, in fair Virtue's heavenly road. 
The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
What is a lordling's jjomp? A cumbrous 

load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined. 

O Scotia, my dear, my native soil. 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 

sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 

content ! 
And oh, may Heaven their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
loved isle. 

O Thou, who poured the patriotic tide 

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted 

heart ; 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride. 
Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God peculiarly thou art. 
His friend, inspirer, guardian and reward !) 
O, never, never Scotia's realm desert ! 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard ! 
1780. Robert Burns. 

I Altered from Pope's " Windsor Forest," I, m. 
3 Pope's '* Essay oa Man," iv. 348. 



94 



THE PSALM-BOOK IN THE GAUSET. 



THE PSALM-BOOK IN THE GARRET. 



A garret grows a human thing 
With lonely oriental eyes, 

To whom confiding fingers bring 
The worlJ in vesterdav's disi;uise. 







Ah, richer tar than noor.iide 
blaze 
The soft gray silence of the 
air, 
As if long years of ended days 
Had garnered all their twi- 
lisrhts there. 



I he heart can see so clear and far 
In such a place, with such a light — 

God counts His heavens star by star, 
And rains them down unclouded night. 

Where rafters set their cobwebb'd feet 
Upon the rugged oaken led^e, 

I found a flock of singers sweet. 

Like snow-bound sparrows in a hedge. 



' Old Holse of Puritanic mood- ' 



THE PSALM-BOOK IN THE GARRET. 



95 



In silk of spider's spinning liid, 

A long and narrow psalm-book lay; 

I wrote a name upon the lid, 

Then brushed the idle dust away. 

Ah, dotted tribe with ebon heads 
That climb the slender fence along! 

As black as ink, as thick as weeds, 
Ye little Africans of song ! 

Who wrote upon this page, " Forget 
Me Not?" These cruel leaves of old 

Have crushed to death a violet — 
See here, it's spectre's pallid gold. 



I shake the leaves. They part at " Mear ' — 
Again they strike the good old tune , 

The village church is builded here ; 
The twilight turns to afternoon. 

Old house of Puritanic wood, 

Thro' whose unpainted windows streamed 
On seats as primitive and rude 

As Jacob's pillow when he dreamed. 

The white and undiluted day! 

Thy naked aisle no roses grace 
That blossoniL-d at the shuttle's play; 

Nor saints distempered bless the place, 




*' Silk of Spider's Spinning." 



A. penciled whisper during prayer 
Is that poor dim and girlish word ; 

J3ut ah, I linger longest where 
It opens of its own accord. 

'These spotted leaves ! how they once basked 
Beneath the glance of girlhood's eyes, 

And parted to the gaze unasked, 
As spreads the wings of butterflies. 

'The book falls open where it will — 

Broad on the page runs " Silver Street!" 

That shining way to " Zion's Hill " 
'Where base and treble used to meet. 



Like feudal castles, front to front. 
In timbered oak of Saxon Thor, 

To brave the siege and bear the brunt 
Of Bunyan's endless Holy 'War. 

The pulpit and the gallery stand : — 
Between the twain a peaceful space, 

The prayer and praise on either hand, 
And girls and Gospel face to face. 

I hear the reverend elder say, 

" Hymn fifty-first, long meter, sing I ' 

I hear the psalm-books, fluttered play, 
Like flocks of sparrows taking wing. 



.96 

Armed with a fork to pitch the tune, 
I hear the deacon call " Dundee ; " 

And mount as brisk as " Bonny Doon " 
His fa, sol, la, and scent the key. 

He " trees " the note for Sister Gray , 
The old Scotch warbling strains begin ; 

The bass of Bashan leads the way, 
And all the girls fall sweetly in. 

How swells the hymn of heavenly love, 
As rise the tides in Fundy's Bay ! 

Till all the air below, above. 

Is sweet with song and caraway ! 

A fugue let loose cheers up the place 
With bass and tenor, alto, air ; 

The parts strike in with measured grace. 
And something sweet is everywhere ! 

As if some warbling brood should build 
Of bits of tunes a singing nest. 

Each bringing that with which it thrilled 
And weaving it with all the rest I 

The congregation rise and stand ; 

" Old Hundred's " reeling thunder comes 
In heavy surges, slow and grand. 

As beats the surf its solemn drums. 



TIJE OLD CHESTS IN THE GABRET. 



Now comes the times when " China's " 
Is blended with the faint perfume 

Of whispering crape and cloudy veil, 
That fold within their rustling gloom 

Some wounded human mourning dove, 
And fall around some stricken one 

With nothing left alive to love 
Below the unregarded sun ! 

And now they sing a star in sight. 
The blessed " Star of Bethlehem;" 

And now the air is royal bright 
With " Coronation's " diadem. 

They show me spots of dimpled sod. 
They say the girls of old are there : — 

Oh, no, they swell the choirs of God ; 
The dear old songs are everywhere ! 



wail 



THE OLD CHESTS IN THE GARRET. 

Up in the garret one rainy day, 

Where the rafters were hung with the cobwebs 

gray, 
Where the dust lay thick on chest and board, 
Where the wind up the great wide chimneys 

roared, 

I came to think awhile. 

Round about the room in a row. 
Were chests of treasures of long ago : 
Quaint old fans of sandal-wood. 
Silks that alone in their glory stood, 

On some day long passed by. 

India muslins fine and old. 
Costly lace as yellow as gold. 
Satin with its silvery sheen. 
Strings of pearls fit for a queen, 
Carefully stored away. 

Into my fancy a picture came. 
Of royal knight, of stately dame, 
Of laughing eyes, of glossy curls 
Fastened back with these strings of pearls,. 
Some by-gone Christmas eve. 

I closed the chest-lid with a sigh, 
And hung the key on a rafter nigh. 
For many a Christmas eve had gone, 
Passed had many a Christmas morn, 

While they slept under the snow. 

Resting there, for their work was done, 
Of deeds, of words, and honor won ; 
Those in memory will stay, 
Though lord and lady have passed away,. 
And treasures fall to dust. 

I opened another chest to find 
Packs of letters with ribbons twined. 
Some of the ribbons were bright and gay,. 
Others were black and seemed to say, 

Sad news was with them bound. 

One letter writ in a manly hand, 
Came over the sea from a foreign land, 



THE BROKEN HEARTHSTONE. 



97 



Telling when the ship would sail ; 
But the vessel sank in a fearful gale 

And the sailor came no more. 

I started, for the tears fell fast 
O'er this reminder of the past, 
But softly speaking in my ear 
An angel's voice I seemed to hear, 
And this it said to me : 

" Weep not for a past which is over and gone, 
The friends whose memory you mourn 
Safe through the storms of life's rough sea 
By the dear Christ's side are awaiting thee. 
Soon shalt thou meet them there." 

The dusky garret with peace was filled, 
The pattering rain on the roof was stilled, 
The sunbeams flickering through the room, 
Came like light from my Father's home. 

Or a smile from loved ones gone. 



THE BROKEN HEARTHSTONE. 

Our foot struck hard against a broken stone — 

A hearthstone 'mid the corn : 
It was the hearthstone that our childish feet 

In the years past had worn. 
We bowed, not heavy with a load of grief, 
But tender tears came, making our belief 

More fresh within us ; not as to a grave 

We came to seek this place. 
But o'er the stones we bent most tenderly 

Our sober homeward face ; 
We came as one who duly understands 
The house he seeketh — one not made with 
hands. 

But we would lean our homeward face once 
more 

Upon earth's altar stones. 
And if we cling too closely to the place. 

New tenderness atones 
For anything of doubt or human dread. 
And in the place our soul was comforted. 



A soft hand, fragrant as an angel's wing, 
Reached from the stones and laid 

Its touch upon us, there we found a string 
Of pearls hang in the shade 

Of the green waving corn ; we knew the clear. 

White valley lilies, to our childhood dear. 




" Pearls Hung in the Shade." 

They came up through the chinks of the 
mossed stone ; 

They had crept from the still 
To the old hearth. Perhaps most tenderly 

Their fibers felt the chill 
Of loneliness and crept more near, and rpii. 
As we do to the hearthstone every year. 



98 O IIAPPT nousE ! 

However, there they were, the valley bells 

A-tremble on their stirngs — 
. The frail, yet the enduring, the unchanged. 

As if an angel's wing 
Had swept our heart, it trembled, and we 

said. 
Yea, Lord, our pilgrim soul is comforted ! 



And runs them on the white threads of the heart 

And they are sadly sweet — 
Not chance nor change, nor any frost of time. 

Our soul's life can defeat. 
Our home is an abiding city ; there, with God 
Are those who, with us, earth's poor hearth- 
stones trod. 




The corn above us waved triumphantly ; 

Vale-lilies bent beneath, 
And all things said — not less our heart 
within — 

" There is, there is no death ! " 
We will not put our human yearnings by, 
They knit our soul to that which can not die ; 

But when we go on love's lone pilgrimage. 

And when our tears like rain 
Fall down on broken hearths, let us arise 

In hope renewed again : 
" We seek a better country," even where 
The many mansions of the Father are. 

And for the tenderness and for the tears 

That welled as if from springs. 
We thank Thee, God, and for the trembling 
notes 

That hope within us sings ! 
She catches up the rustle of the corn. 
The faintest whisper in the lily born, 



O HAPPY HOUSE! 

O happy house ! where thou art loved the 
best. 

Dear Friend and Saviour of our race. 
Where never comes such welcome, honored 
Guest, 

Where none can ever fill thy place ; 
Where every heart goes forth to meet thee, 

Where every ear attends thy word, 
Where every lip with blessing greets thee, 

Where all are waiting on their Lord. 



O happy house ! where man and wife in heart. 

In faith, and hope are one. 
That neither life nor death can ever part 

The holy union here begun ; 
Where both are sharing one salvation, 

And live before thee. Lord, always, 
In gladness or in tribulation, 

In happy or in evil days. 



EVENING SONG OF THE M-EABT. 



99 



O happy house ! whose little ones are given 

Early to thee, in faith and prayer, — 
To thee, their Friend, who from the heights 
of heaven 
Guards them with more than mother's care. 
O happy house ! where little voices 

Their glad hosannas love to raise, 
And childhood's lisping 
tongue rejoices 
To bring new songs of 
love and praise. 



O happy house ! and happy 
servitude ! 
Where all alike one Mas- 
ter own ; 
Where daily duty, in thy 
strength pursued, 
Is never hard nor toil- 
some known ; 
Where each one serves thee, 
meek and lowly, 
Whatever thine appoint- 
ment be, 
Till common tasks seem 
great and holy. 
When they are done as 
unto thee. 



O happy house ! where thou 
art not forgot 
When joy is flowing full 
and free ; 
O happy house! where every 
wound is brought. 
Physician, Comforter, to 
thee. 
Until at last, earth's day's 
work ended. 
All meet thee in that home above, 
From whence thou camest, where thou hast 
ascended. 
Thy heaven of glory and of love ! 
Karl Johann Philipp Spitta. 

Translated by Mrs. Eric Findlater. 



EVENING SONG OF THE WEARY. 

Father of heaven and earth ! 

I bless thee for the night, 

The soft, still night ! 
The holy pause of care and mirth, 

Of sound and light! 




Now, far in glade and dell, 
Flower-cup, and bud, and bell 
Have shut around the sleeping woodlark's 
nest ; 
The bee's long murmuring toils are done, 
And I, the o'erwearied one. 



nnim fob bedtime. 



O'erwearied and o'erwrought, 
Eless thee, O God, O Father of the oppressed, 
With my last waking tliought, 
In the still night! 
Yes, ere I sink to rest, 
By the fire's dying light. 
Thou Lord of earth and heaven ! 
I bless thee, who hast given 
Unto life's fainting travellers the night. 
The soft, still, holy night ! 

Felicia D. Hemans. 




Good Nic;ht! 

HYMN FOR BEDTIME. 

Round about my bed abide, 
Jesu Lord, at eventide ; 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch : 
Round about my pillow keep 
Watch and vigil while I sleep : 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 



Ward away the hosts of hell, 
Thou who keepest Israel ; 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch : 
When thou watchest over me, 
Let my spirit watch with thee : 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 

Let thy holy angels spread 
Dewy wings about my bed : 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch : 
Let him shed from his pure breast 
Dreams of heaven's eternal rest : 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 

Underneath thy cross's sign 
I myself to thee resign : 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch : 
Hence let Satan flee away ! 
Only, Jesu, with me stay: 

Watch, clear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 

Friends and kinsmen everywhere,—— 
All commend I to thy care ; 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch : 
Let them sleep secure from harm 
Underneath thy sheltering arm: 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 

O'er the sleepers who have gone 
To their rest thy breast upon, 

Watch, dear Jesu, watch : 
Sleep they well, till time shall cease: 
May their spirits rest in peace : 
Watch, dear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 

Till the night of trouble o'er, 
On the everlasting shore 
We all awake, to sleep no morej 
Watch, dear Jesu, we implore : 
Watch, dear Jesu, watch ; 
Jesu, watch. 

Gerard Moui.TraE 



AN EVENING HYMN. 



A GATHERED FAMILY. 

Scattered o'er various fields by Heaven, 
Through various pathways led, 

What happiness in peace to meet 
Around a common head ! 

To talk of mercies shared by all. 

Of hopes that virtues raise ; 
And in the general bliss enjoyed, 

To join in general praise ! 

The pleasures of the past recall, 

And tell the tales again 
Of infant dreams, and childhood's joys, 

And youth's delightful reign, — 

And then the strange vicissitudes 

Of mankind to compare ; 
And mark how wonderful, how kind, 

Heaven's dispensations are, — 

To plan the schemes of future bliss ; 

Rejoicing to confess, 
That He whose love hath blessed the past, 

The future, too, will bless. 

Thus the domestic hearth is made 

Both love and virtue's shrine, 
And thus earth's dross is purified, 

And man becomes divine. 

Sir John Bo wring. 



AN EVENING HYMN. 

Never yet could careless sleep 
On Love's watchful eyelid creep; 
Never yet could gloomy night 
Damp his eye's immortal light : 
Love is his own ray, and sees 
Whatsoe'er himself doth please : 
Love his piercing look can dart 
Through the shades of my dark heart, 
And read plainer far than I 
All the spots which there do lye. 



Pardon then what thou dost see. 
Mighty Love, in wretched me : 
Let the sweet wrath of thy ray 
Chide my sinful night to day ; 
To the blessed day of grace, 
Whose dear East smiled in thy face, 
So no powers of darkness shall 
In this night my soul appall ; 
So shall I the sounder sleep, 
'Cause my heart awake I keep, 
Meekly waiting upon thee. 
Whilst thou deign'st to watch for me. 

Joseph Beaumont. 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

Before us our repast is spread ; 

Before us are thy bounties shed ; 

Oh, bless. Most High, these gifts of thine. 

That we may gi dw in grace divine. 

To all the creatures lacking food 

Thou art the generous and good. 

The land with peace and fruitfulness 
Enrich ; air, earth, and water bless. 
Nourish us with the bread of life. 
Bought by Christ's grand and deadly strife. 
With humble, grateful heart may we 
Accept whatever flows from thee ! 
Translated from the Danish of Thomas Kingo 
by Gilbert Tait, 1868. 

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare 
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair .> 
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 
I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it 

with sighs. 
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ; 
Not a tie will break, not a link will start ; 
Would you know the spell? a mother sat 

there ! 
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. 

In childhood's home I lingered near 
The hallowed seat with listening ear; 



THE OLD ARM CITAIU. 




And gentle words that 

mother would give 
To fit me to die, and teach 

me to live. 
She told me that shame 

would never betide 
With truth for my creed, * 

and God for my guide ; 
She taught me to lisp my 

earliest prayer, 
As I knelt beside that old 

arm-chair. 

I sat and watched her many 

a day. 
When her eye grew dim, 

and her locks were gray. 
And I almost worshipped 

her when she smiled, 
And turned from her Bible 

to bless her child. 
Years rolled on, but the last 

one sped, — 
My idol was shattered, my 

earth-star fled ! 
I learned how much the 

heart can bear, 
When I saw her die in her 

old arm-chair. 

'Tis past, 'tis past! but I 

gaze on it now. 
With quivering breath and 

throbbing brow ; 
'Twas there she nursed me, 

'twas there she died, 
And memory flows with lava 

tide. 
Say it is folly, and deem me 

weak, 
Whilst scalding drops star) 

down my cheek ; 
But I love it, I love it, and 

cannot tear 
My soul from a rnother's old 

arm-chair. 

Kliza Cook. 




A BLIND man's SONG. 



A ^vo.VAy's ,soi\T; to )voman. 
THE HOUSEWIFE. 



What has this woman been doing, 
So long since the morning begun ? 

I don't believe she can remember 
One-half of the work she has done. 



That's what this woman's been doing, 
Day after day 'tis the same ; 

Angels, oh, watch and defend her, 
" Mother " — for that is her name. 



'05 




' I don't beueve She remembers one half the Things She hath Done 



Dressing the dear little baby. 
Combing his soft silken hair. 

Putting him back in the cradle 

To sleep and grow healthy and fair. 

Doing the work in the kitchen, 
Just what it happens to be, 

Covering books for the school-room, — 
Ready for callers at three. 

Mending and making and chatting, 
Two or three children to teach, 

If not the primer's first lesson, 
Methods no others can preach. 



A WOMAN'S SONG TO WOMAN. 

Pull the needle, swing the broom, 
Tidy up the littered room. 
Patch the trousers, darn the shirt, 
Fight the daily dust and dirt; 
All around you trust your skill, 
Confident of kindness still. 



Stir the gruel, knead the bread, 
Tax your hands, and heart, and head : 
Children sick and household hungry; 
(Though some thoughtless words have 
stung you), 



io6 



FA]UILY TIES. 



All are waiting on your will, 
Confident of kindness still. 



Nei'er mind the glance oblique, 
Never cause of coldness seek, 
Never notice slight or frown, 
By your conduct live them down : 
All at last will seek your skill, 
Confident of kindness still. 




"Words of Cheer and Comfort Speak." 



Sing the song and tell the story 
Of the Saviour's coming glory, 
To the children whom He blesses 
With your guidance and caresses, 
Who for all things wait your will, 
Confident of kindness still. 



Feed the hungry and the weak, 
Words of cheer and comfort speak, 
Be the angel of the poor, 
Teach them bravely to endure ; 
Show them this, the Father's will. 
Confident of kindness still. 



Gratitude may be your lot, 
Then be thankful ; but, if not. 
Are you better than your Lord 
Who endured the cross and sword 
From those very hands whose skill 
Waited ever on His will ? 



Noble is a life of care 
If a holy zeal be there ; 
All your little deeds of love 
Heavenward helps at last may prove, 
If you seek your Father's will, 
Trusting in His kindness still. 



FAMILY TIES. 

The human heart can never know 

Enjoyment more refined, 
Then where the sacred band is twined 

Of filial and parental ties, — 
That tender union, all combined 

Of Nature's holiest sympathies ! 



Lift your heart and lift your eyes. 
Let continual prayer arise ; 
Think of all the Saviour's woe 
When He walked with man below, 
How poor sinners sought His skill, 
Confident of kindness still. 



'Tis friendship in its loveliest dress ! 
'Tis love's most perfect tenderness ! 
All other friendships may decay, 
All other loves may fade away : 
Our faults or follies may disgust 
The friend in whom we fondly trust; 



LEMUEL'S SONG. 



107 



Or selfish views may intervene, 
From us his changeful heart to wean ; 
Or we ourselves may change, and find 
Faults to which once our love was blind : 
Or lingering pain, or pining care 
At length may weary friendship's ear ; 
And love may gaze with altered eye. 
When beauty's young attractions fly : 
Eut in that union, firm and mild, 
That binds a parent to his child, 
Such jarring chords can never sound — 
Such painful doubts can never wound. 
Though health and fortune may decay. 
And fleeting beauty pass away ; 
Though grief may blight, or sin deface 
Our youth's fair promise, or disgrace 
May brand with infamy, and shame. 
And public scorn, our blasted name ; 
Though all the fell contagion fly, 
Of guilt, reproach and misery, — 
When love forgets, and friends forsake, 
A parent, though his heart may break. 
From that fond heart will never tear 
The child, whose last retreat is there 1 
O union, purest, most sublime ! 
The grave itself but for a time 

The holy bond shall sever ; 
His hand who rent shall bind again. 
With firmer links, thy broken chain, 

To be complete forever ! 

FiTZARTHUR. 



LEMUEL'S SONG. 

Who finds a woman good and wise, 
A gem more worth than pearls hath got ; 
Her husband's heart on her relies ; 
To live by spoil he needeth not. 
His comfort all his life is she ; 
No wrong she willingly will do ; 
For wool and flax her searches be. 
And cheerful hands she puts thereto 



The merchant ship resembling right, 

Her food she from afar doth fet. [Bring.] 



Ere day she wakes, that give she might 
Her maids their task, her household meat. 
A field she views, and that she buys ; 
Her hand doth plant a vineyard there ; 
Her loins with courage up she ties. 
Her arms with vigor strengthened are. 

If in her work she profit feel. 

By night her candle goes not out : 

She puts her finger to the wheel. 

Her hand the spindle turns about. 

To such as poor and needy are 

Her hand (yea, both hands) reacheth she. 

The winter none of hers doth fear. 

For double clothed her household be. 

She mantles maketh, wrought by hand. 

And silk and purple clothing gets. 

Among the rulers of the land, 

(Known in the gate) her husband sits. 

For sale fine linen weaveth she. 

And girdles to the merchant sends. 

Renown and strength her clothing be, 

And joy her later time attends. 

She speaks discreetly when she talks ; 

The law of grace her tongue hath learned ; 

She heeds the way her household walks, 

And feedeth not on bread unearned. 

Her children rise, and blest her call : 

Her husband thus applaudeth her, 

" Oh, thou hast far surpassed them all, 

Though many daughters thriving are ! " 

Deceitful favor quickly wears. 
And beauty suddenly decays ; 
But, if the Lord she truly fears. 
That woman well deserveth praise. 
The fruit her handywork obtains : 
Without repining grant her that. 
And yield her when her labor gains. 
To do her honor in the gate. 

George Wither. 

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. 

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, 

Of England green and old. 
That out from fame and ivied tower 

A thousand years have tolled; 



loS 



TEE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. 



How glorious must their music be 
As breaks the hallowed day, 

And calleth with a seraph's voice 
A nation up to pray! 



Outbreaking as the angels did, 
For a Redeemer born ! 

How merrily they call afar. 
To cot and baron's hall, 




"The (Jhimls oi- England, how they PealI" 

Those chimes that tell a thousand tales ; 

Sweet tales of olden time ; 
And ring a thousand memories 

At vesper, and at prime ! 
At bridal and at burial. 

For cottager and king. 
Those chimes, those glorious Christian 
chimes. 

How blessedly they ring ! 

Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland 
Upon a Christmas morn. 



With holly decked and mistletoe, 

To keep the festival ! 
The chimes of England, how they 
peal 

From tower and Gothic pile. 
Where hymn and swelling anthemi 
fill 

The dim cathedral aisle ; 
\A'here windows bathe the holy light 

On priestly heads that falls, 
And stain the florid tracery 

Of banner-dighted walls ! 

\nd then, those Easter bells, ira 
spring, 
Those glorious Easter chimes ! 
How loyally they hail thee round, 

Old Queen of holy times ! 
From hill to hill, like sentinels, 

Responsively they cry. 
And sing the rising of the Lord, 

From vale to mountain high. 
I love ye, chimes of Motherland, 

With all this soul of mine. 
And bless the Lord that I am 
sprung 
Of good old English line : 
And like a son I sing the lay 
That England's glory tells ; 
For she is lovely to the Lord, 
For you, ye Christian bells ! 



And heir of her ancestral fams. 

Though far away my birth. 
Thee, too, I love, my Forest-land, 

The joy of all the earth ; 
For thine thy mother's voice shall be, 

And here, where God is king, 
With English chimes, from Christian spires 

The wilderness shall ring. 

Ar.THURCtj;.'i.»i:i.AND Coxe. 




Her prim Dutch doll is in her arms. 

And Polly hums a tune 
To match the brook that leads her on 

This pleasant afternoon. 

The mother, busy at her wheel, 

The father at his plough, 
Forget to keep her safe in sight, 

Nor dream of dangers now. 



Yet suddenly a piercing call 

And all the work is done. 
" Come in ! come in ! " the watcher cries, 

" Quick ! to the garrison ! " 

Only one word the farmers need ; 

With beating hearts they climb 
The hill, and reach the open door 

And shut it just in time. 

Out from the woods the Indians steal 

Like tigers lithe and strong. 
A merciless and awful cry 

Rings out and echoes long. 



r° 



She hears the crackling of the boughs ; 

Strange whispers come and go ; 
Oh, Polly Masterson, run quick! 

Your little feet are slow ! 



Alas, she hears the savage cry. 

Where has her father gone ? 
He cannot have forgotten her, 

His Polly Masterson. 



She hurries by the scarlet flowers. 

She holds her dolly fast, 
She sees the crested, snake-like heads 

The danger knows at last. 




The Indians ! oh the woods are full 
Of dreadful shapes of men ! 

Across the open field can she 
Get safely home again ? 

They see her come, the little girl. 

Alas, she trips and falls 1 
Oh anxious faces looking down 

From the stockaded walls ! 

They fear to see her captured now 
Before their very eyes — 

The awful march to Canada 
Brings fearful memories. 




The father turns away his face, 

He prays to God aloud. 
'The mothdr stands as still as stone 

To watch the savage crowd. 

For just beyond, so short, so small. 

The breathless Polly tries 
To hurry to the fast-barred gate 

And " Father ! Father ! " cries ! 

Who can go out ? The strong men look, /A 'il 
But cannot speak ; they know \ml 

That certain death is his who dares \ 

To meet the foes below. i I 




And no one fires a gun ; they stand 

And watch the little child, 
They hear her voice so faint and shrill, 

They see her apron, piled 

With posies, and her arm still holds 

The dolly safe and fast. 
There 1 there she is ! The Indians see, 

They laugh as she runs past. 

They must not murder Polly where 

An hour ago she played ! 
Oh will they drag her to the North 

A wretched captive maid ? 




KATIE AND HER KITE, 



SOFT whiffs of air there were, 
But scarcely enough to stir 
The hollyhock, or the ragged lady, 
Or the big gold sunflower, 

When little Kate Greenaway Smith, 
Who lisps, and for "is," says "ith," 
Took her pale green kite with its tail of yellow, 
And a string to hold it with. 

And went to a lane near by, 
The beautiful thing to fly, 
And thought in her proud little heart to see it 
Soar to the very sky. 



But the wind took it into his head 
To be wicked just then, and said, 
" Kate Greenaway Smith is so very pretty, 
I'd rather fly her instead ! " 

So he puffed out her round hat crown, 
And blew up her straight-skirt gown, 
And she, as light as the seed of a thistle, 
Went up, while the kite staid down ; 

And, frightened almost to death. 
The people cried in one breath, 
"Do you like it, little Kate Greenaway Smith? 
And the answer came back : " Yeth." 



FAIRY DREAMS. 



By Louis Hall. 



T T THY should a little girl keep still ? 
VV The summer wind goes where it will, 
The clover's full of humming bees^ 
And robins swing in cherry-trees, 



The brook runs on, the swallows fly 
Quite down to earth and up the sl^ 
Among the clouds that lie asleep 
Like pastured flocks of snowy sheep. 



"3 



114 



THE SUNBURN GLOVES. 



I know the fairies are not gone — 

The old may be, but more are born ; 

I wish the Queen would send me one 

To finish what I have begun — 

I am so tired of sewing seams ; 

'Tis nicer far to dream day-dreams — 

I'll shut my eyes and call them low, 

So no one but themselves will know : 

When sun shines through the open door, 

A shining path along the floor. 

If three times round I turn the key, 

And bow three times, they'll come to me, 

And bring a pony white as milk, 

With silver shoes and reins of silk, 

A string of ringing bells across 

His curly mane as fine as floss. 

The softest saddle ever seen, 

Of rabbit skin and velvet green ; 

He'll carry me so far away 

Through shady woods this summer day 

That I'll forget this tiresome seam, 

All in a truly fairy dream. 

The swallows darted wild and free, 

Her long seam slipped from hand to knee. 



She heard the brooklet's tinkling bell, 
The bees droned on, her eyelids fell, 




Three times she bowed her sunny head ■ 
And fairies came as she had said. 



THE SUNBURN GLOVES. 



^i^:.,.,.^ 3jtf^^:^z^ 



HOLD out your hands — let's see, 
Is it gloves that you have on ? 
They look so like, we will call them that, 
Put there by the wind and sun. 



Will they keep you warm, do you think, 
When old Jack Frost creeps out 

From his dreary den at the white north pole, 
And peers and peeps about. 



Their color a fine brown tan ; 

And they fit — ah, yes, they fit 
Better than any I could buy, 

Or any I could knit. 



And says to himself, "oh my ! 

The fun there is for me 
When I get to the land of girls and boys 

Where the little bare fingers be " 'i 



There is neither stitch nor seam, 

And the little arm above 
Looks very fair where the sleeve comes down 

To the top of the sunburn glove. 



He's a rogue, a sly keen rogue ; 

So I think, when the days grow cool. 
We will not trust to the sunburn gloves 

But will have some mittens of wool. 




AND THERE, A YARD-STICK FOR MY BOW, 
THROUGH SHERWOOD'S FOREST-AISLES I GO. 



MY SWEETHEART. 



^^Js^^'\AAj^XAnAj{J 



/oUvv^«>(JL 



SUCH a gorgeous little fellow, 
In a suit oi/ad/ yellow, 
And a pair of silken stockings black as any star- 
less night. 
And a hat with ribbons ilowing, 
When the Summer breeze is blowing — 
Ah ! a bonnie little lad is he and quite my heart's 
delight ! 

Sometimes we have gone a-boating 
Down the Mystic River floating, 
With the sun in splendor shining and the blue sky 
overhead. 
He can pull an oar with any 
And can sing as cannot many, 
And he's one among a thousand whatsoever may 
be said. 

He is very fond of horses — 
All their paces and their courses 
He can tell you, and he hopes some day to have a 
long-tailed steed. 
But just now he does his riding. 
In the Future's gifts confiding, 
Down along the village sidewalk on a red veloci- 
pede. 

Every father, every mother. 
Has one sweetheart or another 
With a multitude of virtues and a fault or two 
beside — 
But we love them, ah ! we love them 
Better than the stars above them, 
For the wondrous goodness of them and their 
truth that's ne'er denied. 

By and by, when this bright fellow 
Wears no more his suit of yellow. 
But is clothed in darker garments as befits a grown- 
up man, 
I'm afraid I'll grieve a trifle 
With a grief I cannot stifle 
For these days when we went boating and the 
river swiftly ran. 



But he says he'll be much bolder 
When the years have made him older, 
Be much bolder and much better, and I really 
think he will ; 
Yet I'm sure I'll keep a-wishing 
For the days we went a-fishing 
Or a -climbing after violets that grow upon the 
hill. 




READY FOE A RIDE. 



Now he's singing in the garden 
Some old song of Enoch Arden, 
And I know he's tired waiting while I write this 
down for you. 
So I'll go there where he's singing 
Like the birds about him winging. 
And we'll take a walk together when the sun has 
dried the dew. 



117 



ii8 



THE LITTLE PIXY PEOPLE. 



And I hope he won't be scolding 
When he reads this rhyme's unfolding, 
For I think he ought to deem it quite " a feather 
in his cap," 
That I have not put on paper 
Any frown of his, nor caper. 
Since the time I used to hold him as a baby on 
my lap. 



When you're somewhere near us staying, 
Come and pass a forenoon playing; 
He'll be very glad to see you, and will do the best 
he can 
In the way of merry laughter, 
So you'll like to come hereafter 
For another morning's outing ere he gets to be 
a man. 



THE LITTLE PIXY PEOPLE. 



By James Whitcomb Riley. 



IT was just a very 
Merry fairy dream ! 
All the woods were airy 

With the gloom and gleam ; 
Crickets in the clover 

Clattered clear and strong, 
And the bees droned over 
Their old honey-song. 

In the mossy passes. 

Saucy grasshoppers 
Leapt about the grasses 

And the thistle-burrs ; 
And the whispered chuckle 

Of the Katydid 
Shook the honeysuckle 

Blossoms where he hid. 



One — a gallant fellow— 

Evidently King, — 
Wore a plume of yellow 

In a jewelled ring 
On a pansy bonnet. 

Gold and white and blue, 
With the dew still on it, 

And the fragrance, too. 

One — a dainty lady — 

Evidently Queen — 
Wore a gown of shady 

Moonshine and green, 
With a lace of gleaming 

Starlight that sent 
All the dewdrops dreaming 

Everywhere she went. 



Through the breezy mazes 

Of the lazy June, 
Drowsy with the hazes 

Of the dreamy noon. 
Little Pixy people 

Winged above the walk, 
Pouring from the steeple 

Of a mullein stalk. 



One wore a waistcoat 

Of roseleaves, out and in. 
And one wore a faced-coat 

Of tiger-lily-skin ; 
And one wore a neat coat 

Of palest galingale ; 
And one a tiny street-coat, 

And one a swallow-tail. 



AN UNHAPPY LITTLE GIRL S SOLILOQUY. 



119 



And Ho ! sang the king of them, 

And Hey . sang the queen , 
And round and round the ring of them 

Went dancing o'er the green, 
And Hey ! sang the queen of them, 

And Ho t sang the king — 
And all that I have seen of them 

— Wasn't anything ! 



It was iust a very 

Merry fairy dream t— 
All the woods were airy 

With the glow and gleam; 
Crickets in the clover 

Clattered clear and strong, 
And the bees droned over 

Their old honey-song ! 



AN UNHAPPY LITTLE GIRL'S SOLILOQUY 

By M. E. B. 



I DON'T know how it happened, but the world's 
gone wrong to-day ! 
There's not a bit of real fun in any sort of play ; 
My dolly's just as sulky, my dog won't show his 

tricks. 
My sister Lil is Grosser than a pair of crooked 

sticks ; 
When Nursey went to brush my hair she jerked it 

by the roots ; 
And now the rain has gone and spoiled my best 

new Sunday boots ; 
The apple that I took to school was sour as sour 

could be — 
There's not a thing but has a spite against poor 

little me ! 



And here's the hardest part of all — the tears are 

in my eyes — 
I told mamma, and thought of course, that she 

would sympathize ; 
But when she heard the story, she only smiled and 

said, 
"I think my little girl got out the wrong side of 

the bed ! " 
And then she went and left me there as if I were 

to blame 
Instead of other people ! And it's just a perfect 

shame 



If a girl's only mother, who should comfort her 

and kiss. 
Is going to say cruel words, and turn away like this ! 

The wrong side of my bed, indeed ! I'd really 

like to see 
What difference that could ever make to any one 

but me. 
It's other folks I'm talking of, so hateful and per- 
verse. 
Who make the good things horrid, and all the bad 

things worse. 
Like cook to-day at breakfast, who just began to 

scold 
Because I simply told her that the porridge was all 

cold 
And her muffins were too heavy and no tea was in 

the pot ; 
Suppose I was a little late — she might have kept 

them hot ! 

Then Kit and Sue came after school, and each 
one played so rough, 

And talked so rudely, that at last we broke up in 
a huff, 

And I declared I'd never play with two such hate- 
ful things ; 

And they said something Jtist as mean, all full of 
pricks and stings ! 



120 TO A BUTTERFLY. 

I'd like to know whose fault it was, or if 'twas Perhaps they'll all be sorry when they see me fade 

wrong to say away — 

That since I was the oldest there I ought to have For who would ever want to live the life I've lived 

my way ? to-day ? 

Now, could mamma think possibly the horrid Perhaps they'll realize too late how wicked and 

things they said absurd 

Could have the least connection with how I got out It is to crush a person down without one kindly 

of bed ? word, 

And then, perhaps — that is, I hope — they'll turn 

It makes one so unhappy! It makes one feel so around and see 

blue, How perfectly preposterous their hints have been 

To have your mother and your friends all lay the to me ; 

blame on you, For what does this big world care, when all is 

When any one with half an eye can see as plain as done and said, 

day For how one wretched little girl gets in or out of 

It's everybody else who acts in such an awful way ! bed ! 



kyhtepfly 
Of jet aod fold 




¥l2® ysat' ^POW^ old : 

Gay (^Limmep eomcp, 
fiLihhep k)ae+^, 
On Wio^^ tl^ah l^old 

ni^l^h'^ klae^e^h Llae-H; 
^ii<k you QUd I, 



■<i! Will idls ky 
kohhepfly! 




THE CHRIST CHILD. — HEADS FROM RAPHAEL'S PAINTINGS. 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



U 



^EAR Nanny in her Christmas hood 
With fluffy swansdown round the face, 
Wearing her pretty Christmas gown 
And Httle frill of dainty lace, 
Came with her mother into church, on Christmas 
Eve, with timid grace. 



" My muff, my hood ! " dear Nanny sang; 

" My coat, my dress, my golden ring, 
My waxen doll, my picture-book, 

My stocking full of everything " — 
So sang the sober little maid, so softly no one 

heard her sing. 



Dear Nanny sat there in her pew. 

The Christmas-greens with music stirred. 

The choir sang like a nest of larks. 
But never once she caught a word. 
For she was singing to herself and hers was all the 
song she heard. 



O sweetly carolled forth the choir 

Their Christmas songs, and never knew 

How, in her little simple tune 
Which after all was just as true, 
A-sitting meekly down below dear little Nanny 
carrolled too. 




A cloud descends the vale, 

The pine-crowned crests 

Repeat an echo warningly ; 

A cry, that were not God their God, 

Would make those settlers quail. 



The hurrying, threatening cloud scarce waits 
For prayers ascending to the God who led 

the Pilgrims forth. 
"To arms! To arms! They come — They 

come ! " 
Is heard the cry. 

And quick as lightning on his smoking steed 
A messenger must fly 
To waken all that valley sweet 
Lying in blessed, cool retreat. 




Over the highway old. 

With banner, and song, and jest, 
In uniform gay, eight hundred strong 

Are marching out toward the West. 

Beaming is now the sun 

With healing in each bright ray, 
The earth is waking to life anew 

This beautiful April Day. 

Nature is smiling sweet 

From meadow, and wood, and hill, 
And a simple task it seems to be 

To conquer this hamlet still. 

Passing the jest along, 

The jubilant host march on 

To the easy honor of victory 
Like that of Lexington. 




Swiftly the message ran 

Through villages on its way, 

Bringing the minute men instantly, 
To hold the town that day. 




r'a.>:S;|fc 



Quietly on the hill, 

Drawn back from river and road, 
These yeomen gather from plough and field. 

To wait alone with God. 

Bravely the words that come, 

Pealing down these hundred years. 

Voicing their trust in the God of might. 
And ringing into our ears. 

Fearless and faithful words, 

Hear them so martial and clear : 

" Let us stand our ground, and if we die, 
Praise God, we will die right here." 




Fiercely rages beneath 

Destruction and pillage dire ; 
Liberty's signal crashes and falls, 

Destroyed in the vandal's fire. 

Waiting, the minute men 

" In the fear of God " on the hill 
Calming the hot blood patiently. 

Are holding their rifles still. 

Hardest of all to wait, 
To say coolly, one by one, 

"We will never fire a single shot 
Unless first fired upon." 




Listen ! sharp the command ! 

Bayonet and gun in place. 
The rallying point of the Nation's war, 

The old North Bridge, they face. 

Holding war-council there, 
On God they trustingly wait ; 

Sublimely the Century keeps for them 
A grand and glorious fate. 




THE MAYBE' S.— A CHILD'S PARTY, 



>2S 



THE MAYBE'S. 



FROM the country where if's and perhap's grow, 
That shadowy land called Doubt, 
Where nobody ever can say " I know," 

For nothing is ever found out, 
Come the sprites who bewitch us in childhood and age, 
Whose promises fascinate baby and sage — 
Come the Will-o'-the-wisps who can comfort and tease, 
The dear little, bright-winged, alluring Maybe's / 



A CHILD'S PARTY. 



By Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt. 



BEFORE my cheeks were fairly dry, 
I heard my dusky playmate say : 
" Well, now your mother's in the sky. 
And you can always have your way. 

"Old Mistress has to stay, you know, 
And read the Bible in her room. 

Let's have a party ! Will you, though ? " 
Ah, well, the whole world was in bloom. 



Our quarrel ended. At our feet 
A faint green blossoming carpet lay, 

By some strange chance, divinely sweet, 
Just shaken on that gracious day. 

Into the lonesome parlor we 

Glided and from the shuddering wall 
Bore, in its antique majesty. 

The gilded mirror dim and tall. 



" A party would be fine, and yet — 
There's no one here I can invite." 

"Me and the children." " You forget"— 
" Oh, please pretend that I am white." 



And then a woman, painted by — 
By Raphael, for all I care ! 

From her unhappy place on high, 
Went with us to the outside air. 



I said, and think of it with shame, 
" Well, when it's over, you'll go back 

There to the cabin all the same. 
And just remember you are black. 

" I'll be the lady, for, you see, 
I'm pretty," I serenely said, 

"The black folk say that you would be 
If — if your hair just wasn't red." 

"I'm pretty anyhow, you know, 
I saw this morning that I was." 

"Old Mistress says it's wicked, though, 
To keep on looking in the glass." 



Next the quaint candlesticks we took. 

Their waxen tapers every one 
We lighted, to see how they'd look ; — 

A strange sight, surely, in the sun. 

Then, with misgiving, we undid 
The secret closet by the stair ; — 

There, with patrician dust half-hid, 
My ancestors, in china, were. 

(Hush, child, this splendid tale is true I) 
Were one of these on earth to-day, 

You'd know right well my blood was blue; 
You'd own I was not common clay. 



126 



A CHILD'S PARTY. 



There too, long hid from eyes of men, 
A shining sight we two did see. 

Oh, there was solid silver then 

In this poor hollow world — ah me ! 



" Oh he is not a gentleman," 
I said with my Caucasian scorn. 

" He is," replied the African ; 

" He is. He's quit a-plowing com. 



We spread the carpet. By a great 
Gray tree, we leant the mirror's glare, 

And graven spoon and pictured plate 
Were wildly scattered here and there. 

And then our table : — Thereon gleamed, 
Adorned with many an apple-bud, 

Foam-frosted, dainty things that seemed 
Made of the most delicious mud. 



" He was so old they set him free. 

He preaches now, you ought to know. 
I tell you, we are proud when he 

Eats dinner at our cabin, though." 

"Well — ask him ! " Lo, he raised his head. 

His voice was shaken and severe : 
"Here, sisters in the church," he said. 

Here — for old Satan's sake, come here! 



Next came our dressing. As to that, 
I had the fairest shoes ! (on each 

Were four gold buttons ) and a hat, 

And the plume the blushes of the peach. 



" That white child's done put on her best 
Silk bonnet. (It looks like a rose.) 

And this black little imp is drest 
In all Old Mistress' finest clothes. 



But there was ray dark, elfish guest 
Still standing shabby in her place. 

How could I use her to show best 

My own transcendent bloom and grace ? 



" Come, look ! They've got the parlor glass, 
And all the silver too. Come, look ! 

(Such plates as these, here on the grass ! ) " 
And Uncle Sam shut up his book. 



" You'll be my grandmamma," I sighed 
After much thought, somewhat in fear. 

She, joyous, to her sisters cried : 

" Call me Old Mistress. Do you hear ? " 



The priestess of the eternal flame 

That warmed our Southern kitchen hearth 

Rushed out. The housemaid with her came 
Who swept the cobwebs from the earth. 



About that little slave's weird face 
And rude, round form, I fastened all 

My grandmamma's most awful lace 
And grandmamma's most sacred shawl. 



Then there was one bent to the ground. 
Her hair than lilies not less white, 

With a bright handkerchief was crowned : 
Her lovely face was weird as night. 



Then one last sorrow came to me : 
" I didn't think of it before, 

But at a party there should be 

One gentleman, I guess, or more." 



I felt the flush of sudden pride. 

The others soon grew still with awe, 

For, standing bravely at my side. 

My mother's nurse and mine, they saw. 



"There's uncle Sam, you might ask him." 
I looked, and in an ancient chair. 

Sat a bronze gray-beard, still and grim, 
On Sundays called Old Brother Blair. 



" Who blamed my child ? " she said. " It makes 
My heart ache when they trouble you. 

Here's a whole basket full of cakes. 
And I'll come to the party too." .... 



Above a book his brows were bent. 

It was his pride as I had heard. 
To study the New Testament 

(In which he could not spell one word). 



Tears made of dew were in my eyes. 

These after-tears are made of brine. 
No sweeter soul is in the skies 

Than hers, my mother's nurse and mine. 



LOVM PEBENNIAL. 



127 



LOVE PERENNIAL. 

Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak. 
Lives not within the humour of the eye ; — 
Not being but an outward phantasy, 
That sl<ims the surface of a tinted cheek — 
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow 

weak. 
As if the rose made summer, — and so lie 
Amongst the perishable things that die, 
Unlike the love which I would give and seek, 
Whose health is of no hue — to feel decay 
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. 
Love is its own great loveliness alway. 
And takes new lustre from the touch of time ; 
Its bough owns no December and no May, 
But bears its blossoms into Winter's dime. 
Thomas Hood. 

LOVE CHANGETH NOT. 

Let me not to the marriage of true minds 
Admit impediments. Love is not love 
Which alters when its alteration finds. 
Or bends with the remover to remove ; 

no ; it is an ever fixed mark. 

That looks on tempests and is never shaken ; 
It is the star to every wandering bark. 
Whose worth's unknown, although his height 

be taken. 
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and 

cheeks 
Within his pending sickle's compass come ; 
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, 
But bears it out even to the edge of doom. 
If this be error, and upon me proved, 

1 never writ, nor no man ever loved. 

William Shakespeare. 

SHALL I TELL YOU WHOM I LOVE? 

Shall I tell you whom I love? 

Hearken awhile to me; 
And if such a woman move 

As I now shall versify, 
Be assured 'tis she, or none, 

That I love and love alone. 



Nature did her so much right 
As she scorns the help of art. 
In as many virtues dight 

As e'er yet embraced a heart. 
So much good so truly tried 

Some for less were deified. 

Wit she hath, without desire 

To make known how much she hath ; 

And her anger flames no higher 
Than may fitly sweeten wrath. 

Full of pity as may be. 

Though perhaps not so to me. 

Reason masters every sense. 
And her virtues grace her birth. 

Lovely as all excellence, 

Modest in her most of mirth. 

Likelihood enough to prove 

Only worth could kindle love. 

Such she is ; and if you know 

Such a one as I have sung ; 
Be she brown, or fair, or so 

That she be but somewhile young ; 
Be assured 'tis she, or none, 
That I love and, love alone. 

William Browne. 

RATHER ON EARTH. ' 

When our two souls stand up erect and strong, 
Face to face, drawing nigh and nigher, 
Until the lengthening wings break into fire 
At either curved point, — what bitter wrong 
Can the earth do to us, that we should not 
long 
Be here contented ? Think. In mounting 

higher. 
The angels would press on us, and aspire 
To drop some golden orb of perfect song 
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay 
Rather on earth, beloved, — where the unfit 

Contrarious moods of men recoil away 
And isolate pure spirits, and permit 

A place to stand and love in for a day, 
With darkness and the death hour rounding it, 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



128 



FAIRER TBAN THEE. . 
FAIRER THAN THEE. 



Fairer than thee, beloved, 

Fairer than thee ! 
There is one thing, beloved, 

Fairer than thee. 

Not the glad sun, beloved, 
Bright though it beams ; 

Not the green earth, beloved, 
Silver with streams ; 



Truth in her might, beloved, 

Grand in her sway ; 
Truth with her eyes, beloved. 

Clearer than day. 

Holy and pure, beloved, 

Spotless and free. 
Is the one thing, beloved, 

Fairer than thee. 




"There'll be Naught, Beloved, Fairer than Thee." 



Not the gay birds, beloved, 

Happy and free ; 
Yet there's one thing, beloved. 

Fairer than thee. 

Not the clear day, beloved. 

Glowing with light ; 
Not (fairer still, beloved) 

Star-crowned night. 



Guard well thy soul, beloved. 

Truth dwelling there. 
Shall shadow forth, beloved. 

Her image rare. 

Then shall I deem, beloved. 

That thou art she ; 
And there'll be naught, beloved. 

Fairer than thee. 

Author Unknowil 



1 \ 1 "■" 




GRACE AFTER MEAT. 



GRACE AFTER MEAT. 

Now is ended our repast, 

And our grateful hands we fold ; 

Boundlessly before us cast, 

We recall thy gifts untold. 

For repose and sweetest peace, 

For the joys that never cease. 

For what now we ate and drank, 

For earth, water, forest, air, 

For their treasures, pleasures rare, 

We thee. Father, praise and thank. 

Lord, how many roam the land. 
Pining for a crumb of bread t 
Raising famished eye and hand. 
Crave they fervent, — go unfed. 
Lord, how many, many more, 
In heart's wound, in body's sore. 
Bear starvation's direst doom ! 
Morsels of the gifts we waste 
They implore, as crushed, defaced. 
On they totter to the tomb. 

Let us not our basket hide. 
Lock and bolt and bar behind. 
From the needy who abide 
With us, and with patient mind. 
Zeal untired, their duty do ; 
Bountiful as they are true, 
Let us warm, ungrudging give ; 
And our store shall not be less. 
But increase from love's excess, — 
And we shall diviner live. 

Bless us in the Saviour's name. 
Thou who givest daily food ; 
Let us now thy praise proclaim 
By our toil and hardihood. 
Bless our striving, bless our deed. 
Bless our valor, — bless and lead. 
May want never, never steep 
Our hard, scanty bread in tears ; 
And while us abundance cheers. 
May we comfort those who weep. 

When draws near the closing hour. 
And earth's food shrinks from our lips. 



Bread of life — thy grace's poweir — 
Grant us in that dread eclipsBo 
If our spirit we commend 
To thee, God, our dearest Friend, 
We shall smile at death and pain ; 
And, no more by sorrow wrung, 
And re-born, — forever young, — 
Thine eternal banquet gain. 
Thomas Kingo. Translated by Gilbert Tait. 

THE MAIDEN'S CHOICE. 

Genteel in personage. 
Conduct and equipage ; 
Noble by heritage ; 

Generous and free ; 

Brave, not rom-antic ; 
Learned, not pedantic ; 
Frolic, not frantic — 
This must he be. 

Honor maintaining. 
Meanness disdaining, 
Still entertaining. 
Engaging and new ; 

Neat, but not finical ; 
Sage, but not cynical ; 
Never tyrannical, 
But ever true. 

Author Unknown. 

THE FIRST KISS. 

First time he kissed me, he but only kissed 
The fingers of this hand wherewith I write, 
And ever since it grew more clean andl 
white, . . . 
Slow to world's greetings . . Quick withi 

its " Oh, list, " 
When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst 
I could not wear here plainer to my sight, 
Than that first kiss. The second passed in 

height 
The first, and sought the forehead and halt 
missed, 



132 



THE LAST KISS. 



Half-falling on the hair. O beyond meed ! 
That was the chrism of love v\itn love's own 

crown, 
With sanctifying sweetness did precede. 
The third upon my lips was folded down 
In perfect, purple state ! since when, indeed, 
I have been proud and Said, 

" My love, my own ! " 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



THE LAST KISS. 

Ae fond kiss and then we sever ! 

Ae fareweel, and then forever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 



Who shall say that fortune grieves him, 
While the star of hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me ; 
Dark despair around benights me. 



I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy — 
Naething could resist my Nancy : 
But to see her was to love her, 
Love but her, and love forever. 



Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly 
Never met — or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 



Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest f 
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure ! 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 

Ae fareweel, alas ! forever ! 

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee ; 

Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

RoEERT Burns. 



THERE'S A WOMAN LIKE A DEW- 
DK.UP. 

There's a woman like a dewdrop, she's so 

purer than the purest ; 
And her noble heart's the noblest ; yes, and 

her sure faith's the surest : 
And her eyes are dark and humid, like the 

depth on depth of lustre 
Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier 

than the wild-grape cluster. 
Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's 

rose-tinted marble : 
Then her voice's music . . . call it the 

well's bubbling, the bird's warble. 

And this woman says : " My da}'s were sun- 
less and my nights were moonless; 

Parched the pleasant April herbage, and the 
lark's heart's outbreak tuneless. 

If you loved me not! " and I who — (ah, for 
words of flame !) adore her ! 

Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpa- 
ble before her, — 

I may enter at her portal soon, as now her 
lattice takes me, 

And by noontide as by midnight make her 
mine, as hers she makes me ! 

Robert Browning. 



DOLCINO TO MARGARET. 

The world goes up and the world goes down, 
And the sunshine follows the rain. 

And yesterday's sneer, and yesterday's frown 
Can never come over again. 

Sweet wife. 
No, never come over again. 

For woman is warm, though man be cold. 

And the night will hallow the day ; 
Till the heart which at even was weary and 
old 
Can rise in the morning gay. 

Sweet wife. 
To its work in the morning gay. 

Charles Kingsley. 



SOMEBODY. 



133 



SOMEBODY. 



Somebody's courting somebody, 
Somewhere or other to-night ; 
Somebody's whispering to somebody, 
Somebody's listening to somebody, 
Under this clear moonlight. 






Words never used before 
Sound sweet to somebody. 

Under the maple tree 
Deep though the shadow be, 
Plain enough they can see, 
Bright eyes has somebody. 

No one sits up to wait, 
Though she is out so late. 
All know she's at the gate 
Talking with somebody. 



Tiptoe to parlor door, 
Two shadows on the floor. 




" Susy and Somebody." 

Near the bright river's flow, 
Running so still and slow. 
Talking so soft and slow. 
She sits with somebody. 

Pacing the ocean's shore. 
Edged by the foaming roar, 



Moonlight reveals no more, 
Susy and somebody. 

Two, sitting side by side. 
Float with the ebbing tide, 
"Thus, dearest, may we glide 
Through life," says somebody. 

Somewhere, somebody 
Makes love to somebody. 
To-night. 

Author Unknown. 



A WOMAN'S QUESTION. 

Before I trust my Fate to thee, 
Or place my hand in thine, 
Before I let thy Future give 
Color and form to mine. 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soiil 
to-night for me. 

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel 
A shadow of regret ; 



'34 



THE LOVE-KNOT. 



Is there one link within the Past 
That holds thy spirit yet ? 
Or is thy Faith as clear and free as that which 
I can pledge to thee ? 



Does there within thy dimmest dreams 

A possible future shine, 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, 

Untouched, unshared by mine ? 
If so, at any pain or cost, oh tell me before 
all is lost. 



Look deeper still. If tliou canst feel 
Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back, 
While I have staked the whole ; 
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true 
mercy tell me so. 

Is there within thy heart a need 
That mine can not fulfil ? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still ? 
Speak now — lest at some future day my 
whole life wither and decay. 



Lives there within thy nature hid 
The demon spirit Change, 
Shedding a passing glory still 
On all things new or strange 1 
It may not be thy fault alone — -but shield my 
heart against thine own. 



Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day 
And answer to my claim. 
That Fate, and that to-day's mistake — 
Not thou — had been to blame .'' 
Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou 
wilt surely warm and save me now. 



Nay, answer not, — I dare not hear. 
The words would come too late : 
Yet I would spare thee all remorse. 
So comfort thee, my Fate — 
Whatever on my heart may fall — remembei^ 
I would risk it all ! 

Adelaide Anne Proctok» 

THE LOVE-KNOT. 

Tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied her raven ringlets in ; 
But not alone in its silken snare 
Did she catch her lovely floating hair. 
For, tying her bonnet under her chin, 
She tied a young man's heart within. 

They were strolling together up the hill, 
Where the wind comes blowing merry and 

chill ; 
And it blew the curls a frolicsome race 
All over the happy peach-color'd face. 
Till, scolding and laughing, she tied them in» 
Under her beautiful dimpled chin. 

And it blew a color, bright as the bloom 
Of the pinkest fucshia's tossing plume, 




THE LOVE-KNOT. 



137 



All over the cheeks of the pret- 
tiest girl 

That ever imprison'd a romp- 
ing curl, 

Or, in tying her bonnet under 
her chin, 

Tied a young man's heart within. 



Steeper and steeper grew the 

hill — 
Madder, merrier, chillier still 
The western wind blew down 

and play'd 
The wildest tricks with the little 

maid, 
As, tying her bonnet under her 

chin, 
She tied a young man's heart 

within. 



O western wind, do you think it 
was fair 

To play such tricks with her 
floating hair ? 

To gladly, gleefully do your best 

To blow her against the young 
man's breast ? 

Where he as gladly folded her 
in, 

And kissed her mouth and dim- 
pled chin. 



Oh, Ellery Vane, you little 
thought, 

An hour ago, when you be- 
sought 

This country lass to walk with 
you. 

After the sun had dried the 
dew. 

What perilous danger you'd be 
in. 

As she tied her bonnet under 
her chin. 

Nora Perry. 




* She tied Her 



138 



THE EXCHANGE. 



THE EXCHANGE. 



We pledged our hearts, my love and I, 
I in my arms the maiden clasping; 

I could not tell the reason why, 
But, oh ! I trembled like an aspen. 




THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 

Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning ; 
Close by the window young Eileen is spin- 
ning; 
Bent o'er the fire, the blind grandmother, 
sitting, 

Is crooning and moaning and drow- 
sily knitting, — 

" Eileen, achora, I hear some one 
tapping." 

" 'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against 
the glass flapping." 

" Eileen, I surely hear somebody 
sighing." 

" 'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the 
summer wind dying." 

Merrily, cheerily, nosily whirring, 

Swings the wheel, spins the reel, 
while the foot's stirring ; 

Sprightly and lightly and airily ring- 
ing, 

Thrills the sweet voice of the young 
maiden singing. 



\l^ 



" Close by the Window Young Eileen is Spinning." 

Her father's love she bade me gain ; 

I went, and shook like any reed ! 
I strove to act the man — in vain ! 

We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



"What's that noise that I hear at the 

window, I wonder ? " 
" 'Tis the little birds chirping the 

holly bush, under." 
"What makes you be shoving and 

moving your stool on, 
And singing all wrong that old song 

of ' The Coolun ' ? " 
There's a form at the casement, — 

the form of her true-love, — 
And he whispers, with face bent, 

" I'm waiting for you, love ; 
Get up on your stool, through the 

lattice step lightly, 
We'll rove in the grove while the 

^ moon's shining brightly." 

Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring. 
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the 

foot's stirring; 
Sprightly and lightly and airily ringing, 
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden 
singing. 




LIFE IS A MYSTERY AS DEEP AS DEATH, 



THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. 



139 



The maid shakes her head, on her lips lay 

her fingers, 
Steals up from her seat, — longs to go, and 

yet lingers; 
A frightened glance turns to her drowsy 

grandmother, 
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the 

wheel with the other. 
X,azily, easily, swings now the wheel 

round ; 
Slowly and lowly is heard now the 

reel's sound ; 
Koiseless and light to the lattice 

above her 



Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing 
and moving. 

Through the grove the young lovers by moon- 
light are roving. 

John Francis Waller. 




* Swings 



The maid steps, — then leaps to the arms of 

her lover. 
Slower — and slower — and slower the wheel 

swings ; 
Lower — and lower — and lower the reel 

rings ; 



I LOVE THEE. 

I love thee — I love thee ! 

Tis all that I can say; — 
It is my vision in the night, 

My dreaming in the day; 



140 



FOB LOVE'S SAKE ONLY. 



The very echo of my heart, 

The blessing when I pray : 
I love thee — I love thee ! 

Is all that I can say. 

I love thee — I love thee ! 

Is ever on my tongue ; 
In all my proudest poesy 

That chorus still is sung ; 
It is the verdict of my eyes, 

Amidst the gay and young : 
I love thee — I love thee ! 

A thousand maids among. 

I love thee — I love thee ! 

Thy bright and hazel glance, 
The mellow lute upon those lips, 

Whose tender tones entrance ; 
But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs 

That still these words enhance, 
I love thee — I love thee ! 

Whatever be thy chance. 

Thomas Hood. 



«-%-" 




Lkight, Clear Suhmcr Day." 



LINES. 



Let us make a leap, my dear. 
In our love, of many a year. 



And date it very far away, 
On a bright clear summer day, 
When the heart was like a sun 
To itself, and falsehood none ; 
And the rosy lips a part 
Of the very loving heart, 
And the shining of the eye 
But a sign to know it by ; — 
When my faults were all forgiven, 
And my life deserved of Heaven, 
Dearest, let us reckon so. 
And love for all that long ago ; 
Each absence count a year complete, 
And keep a birthday when we meet. 

Thomas Hood. 



FOR LOVE'S SAKE ONLY. 

If thou must love me, let it be for naught 
Except for love's sake only. Do not 
say 
" I love her for her smile . . . her 
look . . . her way 
Of speaking gently . . for a trick 
of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and 
certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a. 
day " — 
For these things in themselves, be- 
loved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee, — 
and love so wrought, 
May be unwrought so. Neither love 
me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my 
cheeks dry; 
A creature might forget to weep, 
who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy 
love thereby. 
But love me for love's sake, that ever- 
more 
Thou may'st love on through love's eter- 
nity. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



THE TURN OF THE TIDE. 



143 



THE WHITE ROSE. 

SENT BY A YORKISH LOVER TO HIS LANCASTRIAN MISTRESS. 

If this fair rose offend thy sight, 

Placed in thy bosom bare, 
'Twill blush to find itself less whitr, 

And turn Lancastrian there. 
But if thy ruby lip it spy, 

As kiss it thou mayst deign. 
With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, 

And Yorkish turn again. 

MEETING. 

The gray sea, and the long black land ; 

And the yellow half -moon large and low; 

And the startled little waves, that leap 

In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 

As I gain the cove with pushing prow. 

And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach ; 

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears : 

A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch 

And the blue spurt of a lighted match. 

And a voice less loud, through its joys and 

fears. 
Than the two hearts, beating each to each. 
Robert Browning. 



Oh dance, little wavelets, all feathered with 

foam, 
And break in his path as he steereth for home. 

I wonder what luck had my good man this 

day? — 
The hours drag slowly while he is away; 
And ah ! if the gray rack scud over the sky, 
And spiteful gusts mutter that tempests are 

nigh, 
I shudder to think of the clouds growing black. 
The storm swooping fierce on his perilous 

track. 
'Tis a lone life, a sad life, my sailor, for me, 
When you are afar on the pitiless sea. 

But aye when the wet sand grates under the 

keel. 
And I spring for the fish that shall burden 

the creel, 
When, swarthy and bronzed with the wind and 

the sun. 
My man leaps ashore, and his day's work is 

done. 
Would I change with the lady who sits in her 

pride ? 
Not I, with my true love safe home at my 

side. 




THE TURN OF THE TIDE. 

I wait and I watch for the turn of the tide. 
For then will my sailor come back to my side. 
O breezes, be swift as ye ruffle the sea. 
And fill the white canvas that's flying to me. 



Ah ! weary's the time when the ebb leaves the 

shore — 
Faint-hearted I gaze from my low cabin 

door; 
But joyous the lap of the in-rushing sea — 
When the tide is at flood, it is music to me. 



J 44 



THE LITTLE BROWN CABIN. 



Then quick with the drifts, set the hearth-fire 

ablaze, 
And sing, merry kettle, an air in his praise. 
Who comes with the bread that is won from 

the wave, 
The fisherman, sturdy and faithful and brave. 

Far inland, I've heard, there are billows of 

corn. 
And orchards that laugh in the light of the 

morn, 
Great gardens of roses, thick hedges in bloom, 
And forests that rustle in whispering gloom : — 
I would rather dwell here, by the stern ocean's 

side. 
Where I watch and I wait every turn of the 

tide; 
Where, though storms may be fearful, yet har- 
bor is sweet. 
And the silver surf creeps with a kiss to my 

feet ; 
Where I climb to the rocks and gaze over the 

sea, 
To welcome the sailor who steereth to me. 



. ' §i 



THE LITTLE BROWN CABIN. 

I dream of it tossing about in my skiff, 
The little brown cabin just under the cliff : 
The wild rose blown m at the window I see. 
And Rose at the door looking out after me ; 

My sweetheart, my wife, 

The Rose of my life ! 



The sun in the doorway strikes gold from her 

hair; 
The breeze fills the little brown house with 

salt air, 
And she leans to its breath, as if over the sea 
It were bringing a kiss and a message from 
me; 

My pretty wild Rose, 
The sweetest that grows ! 



I have not one wish from my darling apart : 
The thought of her sweetens my soul and my 

heart ; 
And my boat like a bird flies across the blue 

sea 
To the little brown cabin where Rose waits 
for me, 

The Rose of my life, 
My own blessed wife ! 



And hark — the gay voice of the skipper's 

bride ! 
The sea is but a wild delight to her, 
Companion of her childhood, and its toy. 
She loves no landsman, but her mariner 
Lives in her heart, the very soul of the sea ! 
Lucy Lakcom. 
THE NEW HOUSEHOLD. 

O fortunate, O happy day, 
When a new household finds its place, 
Among the myriad homes of earth, 
Like a new star just sprung to birth, 
And rolled on its harmonious way 
Into the boundless realms of space ! 



For two alone there in the hall, 

Is spread the table round and small; 

Upon the polished silver shine 

The evening lamps ; but, more divine 

The light of love shines over all ; 

Of love, that says not mine and thine 

But Durs, for ours is thine and mine. 




I WAIT AND I WATCH FOR THE TURN OF THE TIDE. 



A WEDDING SERMON. 



147 



A WEDDING SERMON. 

That good, which does itself not know, 
Scarce is. Good families are so, 
Less through their coming of good kind, 
Than having borne it well in mind ; 
And this does all from honor bar, 
The ignorance of that they are 
In the heart of the world, alas ! for want 
Of knowing aright what light souls taunt 
As lightness, but which God has made 
Such that for even its feeble shade, 
Evoked by falsely fair ostents 
And soiling of its sacraments, 
Great statesmen, poets, warriors, kings, 
Have honour and all other things 
Gladly accounted nothing. What 
Fell fires of Tophet burn forgot ! 



The truths of love are like the sea 

For clearness and for mystery. 

Of that sweet love which, startling, wakes 

Maiden and youth, and mostly breaks 

The word of promise to the ear. 

But keeps it, after many a year. 

To the full spirit, how shall I speak? 

My memory with age is weak. 

And I for hopes do oft suspect 

The things I seem to recollect. 

Yet who but must remember well 

'Twas this made heaven intelligible 

As motive, though 'twas small the power 

The heart might have, for even an hour. 

To hold possession of the height 

Of nameless pathos and delight ! 



In Godhead rise, thither flow back 
All loves, which, as they keep or lack. 
In their turn, the course assigned. 
Are virtue or sin. Love's every kind, 
Lofty or low, of spirit or sense. 
Desire is, or benevolence. 
He who is fairer, better, higher 
Than all his works, claims all desire. 
And in his poor, his proxies, asks 
Our whole benevolence : he tasks. 



Howbeit, his people by their powers ; 
And if, my children, you, for hours 
Daily untortured in the heart, 
Can worship, and in Time's other part 
Give, without rough recoils of sense. 
To claims ingrate of indigence, 
Happy are you, and fit to be 
Wrought to rare heights of sanctity 
For the humble to grow humbler at. 
But if the flying spirit falls flat, 
After the modest spell of prayer, 
That saves the day from sin and care, 
And the upward eye a void descries. 
And praises are hypocrisies. 
And in the soul o'erstrained for grace, 
A godless anguish grows apace ; 
Or, if impartial charity 
Seems, in the act, a sordid lie. 
Do not infer you cannot please 
God, or that he his promises 
Postpones, but be content to love 
No more than he accounts enough. 
Every ambition bears a curse, 
And none if height meets error, worse 
Than his who sets his hope on more 
Godliness than God made him for. 
Account them poor enough who want 
Any good thing which you can grant ; 
And fathom well the depths of life 
In loves of husband and of wife, 
Child, mother, father ; simple keys 
To all the Christian mysteries. 



The love of marriage claims, above 
Each other kind, the name of love. 
As being, though not so saintly high 
As what seeks heaven with single eye. 
Sole perfect. Equal and entire. 
There in benevolence, desire, 
Elsewhere ill-joined, or found apart. 
Become the pulses of one heart. 
Which now contracts and now dilates, 
And, each to the height exalting, mates 
Self-seeking to self-sacrifice. 
Nay, in its subtle paradise 
(When purest) this one love unites 
All modes of these two opposites, 



i48 

All balanced in accord so rich, 
Who may determine which is which ■» 
Chiefly God's love does in it live, 
And nowhere else so sensitive ; 
For each is all that the other's eye, 
In the vague vast of Deity, 
Can comprehend and so contain 
As still to touch and ne'er to strain 
The fragile nerves of joy, and, then, 
'Tis such a wise goodwill to men 
And politic economy 
As in a prosperous State we see. 
Where every plot of common land 
Is yielded to some private hand 
To fence about and cultivate. 
Does narrowness its praise abate ? 
Nay, the infinite of man is found 
But in the beating of its bound. 
And if a brook its banks o'erpass, 
'Tis not sea, but a morass. 



Without God's Word, no wildest gxiess 
Of love's most innocent loftiness 
Had dared to dream of its own height ; 
But that bold sunbeam quenched the night, 
Showing heaven's happiest symbols, where 
The torch of Psyche flashed despair ; 
Proclaiming love, even in divine 
Realms, to be male and feminine 
(Christ's marriage with the church is more. 
My children, than a metaphor); 
And aye by names of bride and wife. 
Husband and bridegroom, heaven's own life 
Picturing, so proved theirs to be 
The earth's unearthliest sanctity. 

Herein I speak of heights, and heights 
Are hardly scaled. The best delights 
Of even this homely passion are 
In the most perfect souls so rare. 
That they who feel them are as men 
Sailing the southern ocean, when. 
At midnight, they look up, and eye 
The starry Cross, and a strange sky 
Of brighter stars ; and sad thoughts come 
To each how far he is from home. 

Coventry Patmore. 



HOME. 

When daily tasks are done, and tired hands 

Lie still and folded on the resting knee. 
When loving thoughts have leave to iooee 
their bands, 

And wander over past and future free ; 
When visions bright of love and hope fulfilled 

Bring weary eyes a spark of olden fire, 
One castle fairer than the rest we build. 

One blessing more than others we desire ; 




A home, our home, wherein all waiting past, 
We two may stand together and alone ; 

Our patient taskwork finished, and at last 
Love's perfect blessedness and peace our 
own. 

Some little nest of safety and delight. 

Guarded by God's good angels day and night. 

We can not guess if this dear home shall lie 
In some green spot embowered with arch- 
ing trees. 




"HOME IS THE KINGDOM AND LOVE IS THE KING." 



A HAPPY WIFE. 



'5' 



Where bird-notes joined with brook-notes glid- 
ing by, 

Shall make us music as we sit at ease. 
Or if amid the city's busy din 

Is built the nest for which we look and 
long, 
No sound without shall mar the peace within, 

The calm of love that time has proved so 
strong. 
Or if, ah ! solemn thought, this home of ours 

Doth lie beyond the world's confusing noise ; 
And if the nest be built in Eden bowers 

What do we still, but silently rejoice ? 
We have a home, but of its happy state 
We know not yet. We are content to wait ! 

A HAPPY WIFE. 

He wraps me round with his riches, 

He covers me up with his care. 
And his love is the love of a manhood 

Whose life is a living prayer. 
I have plighted my woman's affections, 

I have given my all in all. 
And the flowers of a daily contentment 

Renew their sweet lives ere they fall ; 
And yet like an instrument precious 

That playeth an olden tune, 
My heart in the midst of it blessings 

Goes back to a day in June — 

To a day when beneath the branches 

I stood by a silent stream. 
And saw in its bosom an image 

As one seeth a face in a dream. 

I would not resign his devotion. 
No, not for a heart that lives! 
Nor change one jot my condition 

For the change that condition gives : 
I should mourn not more for another, 

Nor more for another rejoice, 
Than now, when I weep at his absence. 
Or welcome his step and his voice. 
And yet like an instrument precious, 

That playeth an olden tune, 
My heart in the midst of its blessings 



Goes back to a day in June — 
To a day when, beneath the branches, 

I stood in the shadowy light. 
And heard the low words of a whisper 

As one heareth a voice in the night. 

NEVER MORE ALONE. 

Go from me ! Yet I feel that I shall stand 
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore 
Alone upon the threshold of my door 
Of individual life, I shall command 
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand 
Serenely in the sunshine as before, . . . 
Thy touch upon the palm. The wildest land 
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in 

mine 
With pulses that beat double. What I do 
And what I dream includfe thee, as the wine 
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I 

sue 
God for myself, He hears that name of thine, 
And sees within my eyes, the tears of two. 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

THE IDEAL MARRIAGE. 

Woman is not undevelopt man. 

But diverse : could we make her as the man, 

Sweet love were slain: his dearest bond is 

this. 
Not like to like, but like in difference. 
Yet, in the long years, liker must they grow; 
The man be more of woman ; she, of man ; 
He gain in sweetness and in moral height, 
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the 

world. 
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care. 
Nor lose the child-like in the larger mind ; 
Till, at the last, she set herself to man 
Like perfect music unto noble words. 
And so these twain upon the skirts of Time, 
Sit side by side, full summed in all their 

powers. 
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, 
Self-reverent each and reverencing each. 
Distinct in individualities. 
But like each other, even as those who love. 



152 



THOU UAST SWQliN BY THY GOD, MY JEANIE. 



Then comes the statelier Eden back to men : 
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste 

and calm : 
Then springs the crowning race of humankind. 
Alfred Tennyson. 

THOU HAST SWORN BY THY GOD, 
MY JEANIE. 

Thou hast sworn by thy God, my Jeanie, 

By that pretty white hand o' thine, 
And by a' the lowing stars in heaven, 

That thou wad aye be mine ! 
And I hae sworn by my God, my Jeanie, 

And by that kind heart o' thine. 
By a' the stars sown thick ower heaven. 

That thou shalt aye be mine. 

Then foul fa' the hands that wad loose sic 
bands, 

An' the heart that wad part sic luve ! 
But there's na hand can loose my band. 

But the finger o' Him abuve. 
Tliough the wee, wee cot maun be my bield. 

And my claithing ne'er sae mean, 
I wad lap me up rich i' the faulds o' luve — 

Heaven's armfu' o' my Jean. 

Her white arm wad be a pillow for me, 

Fu' safter than the down ; 
And luve wad winnow owre us his kind, kind 
wings. 

And sweetly I'd sleep, and soun'. 
Come here to me, thou lass o' my luve ! 

Come here and kneel wi' me ! 
The morn is fu' o' the presence o' God, 

And I canna pray without thee. 

The morn wind is sweet 'mang the beds o' 
new flowers. 
The wee birds sing kindlie an' hie ; 
Our gudeman leans owre his kale-yard dike. 

And a blythe auld bodie is he. 
The Beuk maun be ta'en whan the carle comes 
hame, 
Wi' the holy psalmodie ; 
And thou maun speak o' me to thy God, 
And I will speak o' thee. 

Allan Cunningham. 



AULD ROBIN GRAY. 

When the sheep are in the fauld, and the 

kye's come hame, 
And a' the weary warld to rest are gane, 
The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my 

e'e, 
Unkent by my gude-man, who sleeps sound 

by me. 

Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me 

for his bride ; 
But saving ae crown, he had naething else 

beside : 
To make the crown a pound my Jamie gaed 

to sea, 
And the crown and the pound they were baith 

for me. 

He hadna been gane a twelve-month and a 

day. 
When my father brak his arm, and the cow 

was stown away; 
My mither she fell sick — my Jamie was at 

sea — 
And auld Robin Gray came a courting me. 

My father couldna work, my mither couldna 

spin ; 
I toiled day and night, but their bread I 

couldna win ; 
Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' 

tears in his e'e, 
Said " Jeanie, for their sakes, will ye no marry 

me ? " 

My heart it said nay, and I looked for Jamie 

back ; 
But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a 

wrack : 
His ship was a wrack — Why didna Jamie 

dee? 
Or why am I spared to cry, Wae is me ? 

My father urged me sair : my mither didna 

speak ; 
But she looked in my face till my heart was 

like to break. 




A QUIET CORNER. 



MT LOVE. 



»5S 



They gied him my hand, but my heart was in 

the sea ; 
And so Robin Gray he was gude-man to me. 

I hadna been his wife a week but only four, 
When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at my 

door, 
I saw my Jamie's ghaist, for I couldna think 

it he. 
Till he said " I'm come hame, love, to marry 

thee ! " 

Oh, sair, sair did we greet, and mickle say of 

a' ; 
I gied him ae kiss, and I bade him gang 

awa' ; — 
I wish that I were dead, but I'm nae like to 

dee ; 
For, though my heart i^ broken, I'm but 

young, wae is me ! 

I gang like a ghaist, and I carena much to 

spin; 
I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a 

sin; 
But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be, 
For oh ! Robin Gray, he is kind to me. 

Lady Anne Barnard. 



MY LOVE. 

Not as all other women are 
Is she that to my soul is dear; 
Her glorious fancies come from far. 
Beneath the silver evening star ; 
And yet her heart is ever near. 

Great feelings hath she of her own. 
Which lesser souls may never know ; 
God giveth them to her alone. 
And sweet they are as any tone 
Wherewith the wind may choose to blow. 

Yet in herself she dwelleth not. 
Although no home were half so fair 



No simplest duty is forgot; 
Life hath no dim and lowly spot 
That doth not in her sunshine share. 

She doeth little kindnesses, 

Which most leave undone, or despise ; 

For naught that sets one heart at ease, 

And giveth happiness or peace, 

Is low-esteemed in her eyes. 

She hath no scorn of common things ; 
And, though she seem of other birth, 
Round us her heart entwines and clings. 
And patiently she folds her wings 
To tread the humble paths of earth. 

Blessing she is : God made her so ; 
And deeds of week-day holiness 
Fall from her noiseless as the snow; 
Nor hath she ever chanced to know 
That aught were easier than to bless. 

She is most fair, and thereunto 
Her life doth rightly harmonize ; 
Feeling or thought that was not true 
Ne'er made less beautiful the blue 
Unclouded heaven of her eyes. 

She is a woman — -one in whom 
The spring-time of her childish years 
Hath never lost its fresh perfume, 
Though knowing well that life hath room 
For many blights and many tears. 

I love her with a love as still 
As a broad river's peaceful might 
Which, by high tower and lowly mill, 
Goes wandering at its own sweet will, 
And yet doth ever flow aright. 

And, on its full deep breast serene, 

Like quiet isles my duties lie ; 

It flows around them and between, 

And makes them fresh and fair and 

green — 
Sweet homes wherein to live and die. 

James Russell Lowell. 



150 



TO MY SISTER, ON THE EVE OF BER MARRIAGE. 




Lay thy hand upon thy mouth, brother, 

Lay thy hand upon thy mouth ; 
One word thou hast spoken, — but another 
Were perhaps too much for truth. 

Home is left — oh ! yes, if leaving 
Be when home is in our heart : 
Grieving — yes, 'tis grief, if grieving 

Be for those who cannot part. 
We are one, brother, we are one, — 
Since first the golden cord was spun ; 
It may lengthen, but it cannot sever. 
For, brother, it was twined — and 
twined forever. 



Sister, touch again thy passionate 
lute, — 
Chide no more — chide no more : 
Sooner far my voice were ever mute. 
Than to whisper our fond love were 
o'er. 



TO MY SISTER, ON THE EVE OF HER 
MARRIAGE. 

Thou art leaving the home of thy childhood, 

Sweet sister mine ; 
Is the song of the bird of the wild-wood 

Faint and far as thine ? 
Listless stray thy fingers through the chords. 
Thy voice falters in the old familiar words ; 
What wilt thou for the young, glad voices 
Wherewith our earliest home rejoices ? 
A father's smile benign, 
A mother's love divine, 
Sweet sister mine ? 



But I grieve for hours gone by, 
Of heart to heart, and eye to eye ; 
Oh, we cannot have the joy of meeting 
Day by day thy sunny, smiling greeting ; 
Nor canst thou a brother's fond caress. 
Or a sister's searching tenderness ; 
Grieve I too for summer flowers, 
In calm weather. 
Culled together. 
And the merriment of fireside hours. 
Something whispers, though our heartstrings 
cannot sever. 



PEACE IN LOVE. 



157 



These are gone, sister, — ^gone forever. 
And for these I must repine, — 
Sweet sister mine. 



And my tears shall flow with thine, brother, 
At the sound of those quick chimes ; 
And the thought of home — my father and my 
mother — 
Overfloods my heart at times ; 
And my grief will have its way : 
And though to-morrow 
Joy chaseth sorrow. 
Sorrow chaseth joy to-day. 
Tell me, wherefore should I lull myself 

asleep ? 
Let me weep, brother, — let me weep. 



Nay, I will not, cannot, sister, see them flow ; 

Weep no more, weep no more. 
There is solace from the deepest of our woe. 

That our partings will ere long be o'er. 
We are one in joys undying. 
In the family of Heaven, 
And we mourn not, like the Pleiades ever 
sighing, 
"We have lost our sister — we were seven." 
Still, however wide our pilgrim footsteps 
roam, 
Bright and glorious 
Lie before us 



Mansions in an everlasting home. 
Trust me, sister ; wherefore dost thou weep so 

sore ? 
Weep no more, sister, — weep no more. 
For my spirit catches all the bloom of thine, 
Nor can I in thy prime of bliss repine, 
Sweet sister mine. 

Edward Henry BiCKERSTEtH. 



PEACE IN LOVE. 

A heavy heart, beloved, have I borne 
From year to year until I saw thy face, 
And sorrow after sorrow took the place 
Of all those natural joys as lightly worn 
As the stringed pearls . . . Each lifted in its 

turn 
By a beating heart at dance-time. Hopes 

apace 
Were changed to long despairs, . . . till God's 

own grace 
Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn 
My heavy heart. Then thou didst bid me 

bring 
And let it drop adown thy calmly great 
Deep being ! Fast it sinketh, as a thing 
Which its own nature doth precipitate. 
While thine doth close above it mediat- 
ing 
Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished 

fate. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 




158 



IF THOU WERT BY litT SIDE, MY LOVE. 



IF THOU WERT BY MY SIDE, MY 
LOVE. 

If thou wert by my side, my love, 
How fast would evening fail 

In green Bengala's palmy grove, 
Listening the nightingale ! 

If thou, my love, wert by my side, 

My babies at my knee, 
How gayly would our pinnace glide 

O'er Gunga's mimic sea ! 

I miss thee at the dawning gray, 
When on our deck reclined, 

In careless ease my limbs I lay 
And woo the cooler wind. 

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream 

My twilight steps I guide, 
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam 

I miss thee from my side. 

I spread my books, my pencil try, 
The lingering noon to cheer. 

But miss thy kind approving eye, 
Thy meek attentive ear. 

But when at morn and eve the star 

Beholds me on my knee, 
I feel, though thou art distant far, 

Thy prayers ascend for me. 

Then on ! then on ! where duty leads, 

My course be onward still. 
O'er broad Hindostan's sultry meads. 

O'er bleak Almorah's hill. 

That course nor Delhi's kingly gates. 

Nor mild Malwah detain ; 
For sweet the bliss us both awaits 

By yonder western main. 

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright they 
say. 
Across the dark blue sea ; 
But ne'er were hearts so light and gay 
As then shall meet in thee ! 

Reginald Heber. 



WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 

When the black-lettered list to the gods was 
presented — 

The list of what fate for each mortal intends — 

At the long string of ills a kind goddess re- 
lented. 

And slipped in three blessings, wife, children, 
and friends. 

In vain surely Pluto maintained he was 
cheated, 

For justice divine could not compass its ends ; 

The scheme of man's penance he swore was 
defeated. 

For earth becomes heaven with — wife, chil- 
dren, and friends. 

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands 
vested. 

The fund ill secured oft in bankruptcy ends ; 

But the heart issues bills which are never pro- 
tested. 

When drawn on the firm of — wife, children, 
and friends. 

The day-spring of youth still unclouded by 

sorrow. 
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 
No warmth from the smile of — wife, children, 

and friends. 

William Robert Spencer. 



A MARRIAGE-TABLE. 

W. H. L. AND F. R. 

There was a marriage-table where One sate. 
Haply, unnoticed, till they craved his aid; 
Thenceforward does it seem that he has made 
All virtuous marriage-tables consecrate : 
And so, at this, where without pomp or state 
We sit, and only say, or, mute, are fain 
To wish the simple words " God bless these 
twain ! " 



MABRIAGE SONG. 



'59 



I think that he who " in the midst " doth wait 
Ofttimes, would not abjure our prayerful cheer, 
But, as at Cana, list with gracious ear 
To us, beseeching that the love divine 
May ever at their household table sit, 
Make all his servants who encompass it. 
And change life's bitterest waters into wine. 
Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. 



MARRIAGE SONG. 

"They have no more wine," she said. 
But they had enough of bread ; 
And the vessels by the door 
Held for thirst a plenteous store ; 
Yes, enough ; but love divine 
Turned the water into wine. 

When should wine not water flow. 
But when home two glad hearts go. 
And in sacred bondage bound. 
Soul in soul hath freedom found ! 
Meetly then, a holy sign. 
Turns the water into wine. 

Good is all the feasting then ; 
Good the merry words of men ; 
Good the laughter and the smiles ; 
Good the wine that grief beguiles ; — 
Crowning good, the word divine 
Turning water into wine. 

Friends, the Master with you dwell, 
Daily work this miracle ; 
When fair things too common grow 
Wake again the heavenly show ; 
Ever at your table dine, 
Turning water into wine. 

So at the last you shall descry 
All the patterns of the sky ; 
Earth and heaven of short abode ; 
Houses temples unto God ; 
Waterpots to visions fine. 
Brimming full of heavenly wine ! 

George MacDonald. 



HEBREW WEDDING. 

To the sound of timbrels sweet 
Moving slow our solemn feet, 
We have borne thee on the road 
To the virgin's blest abode ; 
With thy yellow torches gleaming. 
And thy scarlet mantles streaming, 
And the canopy above 
Swaying as we slowly move. 

Thou hast left the joyous feast, 
And the mirth and wine have ceased ; 
And now we set thee down before 
The jealously unclosing door, 
That the favored youth admits 
Where the veiled virgin sits 
In the bliss of maiden fear, 
Waiting our soft tread to hear. 

And the music's brisker din 
At the 'oridegroom's entering in, 
Entering in, a welcome guest, 
To the chamber of his rest. 

CHORUS OF MAIDENS. 

Now the jocund song is thine, 

Bride of David's kingly line ; 

How thy dove-like bosom trembleth, 

And thy shrouded eye resembleth 

Violets, when the dews of eve 

A moist and tremulous glitter leave 

On the bashful sealed lid ! 
Close within the bride-veil hid. 
Motionless thou sitt'st and mute ; 
Save that at the soft salute 
Of each entering maiden friend. 
Thou dost rise and softly bend. 

Hark ! a brisker, merrier glee ! 
The door unfolds, — 'tis he ! 'tis he ! 
Thus we lift our lamps to meet him, 
Thus we touch our lutes to greet him : 
Thou shalt give a fonder meeting, 
Thou shalt give a tenderer greeting. 

Henry Hart Milmas; 



i6o 



MABSIED LIFE. 



MARRIED LIFE. 

But happy they, the happiest of their kind ! 
Whom gentler stars unite, and in one fate 
Their hearts, their fortunes, and their beings 

blend. 
'Tis not the coarser tie of human laws. 
Unnatural oft, and foreign to the mind, 
That binds their peace, but harmony itself. 
Attuning all their passions into love ; 
Where friendship full exerts her softest power. 
Perfect esteem enlivened by desire 



The human blossom blows ; and every day, 
Soft as it rolls along, shows some new charm — — 
The father's lustre, and the mother's bloom. 
Then infant reason grows apace, and calls 
For the kind hand of an assiduous care. 
Delightful task ! to rear the tender thought. 
To teach the young idea how to shoot, 
To pour the fresh instruction o'er the mind, 
To breathe the enlivening spirit, and to fix 
The generous purpose in the glowing breast. 
Oh, speak the joy, ye whom the sudden tear 
Surprises often, while you look around, 




Ineffable, and sympathy of soul ; 
Thought meeting thought, and will prevent- 
ing will. 
With boundless confidence; for naught but 

love 
Can answer love, and render bliss secure. 
Those whom love cements in holy faith. 
And equal transport, free as nature live. 
Disdaining fear. What is the world to them, 
Its pomp, its pleasure and its nonsense all ! 
Who m each other clasp whatever fair 
High fancy forms and lavish hearts can wish ; 
Something than beauty dearer, should they 

look 
Or on the mind, or mind-illumined face — 
Truth, goodness, honor, harmony and love, 
The richest bounty of indulgent heaven. 
Meantime a smiling offspring rises round, 
And mingles both their graces. By degrees 



And nothing strikes your eye but sights of bliss; 
All various nature pressing on the heart — 
An elegant sufhcienc), content. 
Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books. 
Ease and alternate labor, useful life, 
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven ! 
These are the matchless joys of virtuous love; 
And thus their moments fly. The seasons thus, 
As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll, 
Still find them happy ; and consenting spring 
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads : 
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild 
When, after the long vernal day of life, 
Enamor'd more, as more remembrance swells 
With many a proof of recollected love. 
Together down they sink, in social sleep ; 
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly 
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign. 
James Thomson. 




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LITTL E KOSEB UD. — LITTL E JUS TINE. 



163 



LITTLE ROSEBUD. 



SING a song 0' winter time ? " 
How can I, Rosebud dear ! 

yes ! I see the wild, wliite sky, 
The brown fields bare and drear, 

1 hear the north wind piping 
A hoarse loud call for snow, 

I see upon the window-panes 

A fairy forest grow, 
I see snow-buntings flying, 

I hear the titmice call, 
Yet I must sing o' summer time 

Or else not sing at all ; 
For oh ! My little Darling, 

My Heart's Delight, My Dear, 
How can I sing o' winter days 

When you my joy are here ! 

A-looking at you, Darling, 

I see a stately row, 
All shining, o' snow-white lilies 

And roses bending low. 
Heavy with sweetness, golden. 

Or crimson-red as wine. 
As white as milk is, or half pink — 

Like old-time eglantine. 
But oh ! My Sweet, My Treasure, 

The Roseland of the sun 
Holds not so fair and rare a flower 

As you, My Darling One, 




So I must sing o' summer 
Whate'er the weather be, 

For me the world is full of flowers 
With you upon my knee. 



LITTLE JUSTINE. 

By Celia Thaxter. 



THERE'S a touch of frost in the crisp, fresh air, All in the bright morning comes little Justin 

And the trees and hedges are growing bare, With the prettiest bossy that ever was seen. 

And autumn says " It is my turn now," But though he's so sleek and so handsome a cal^ 

As she strips the leaves from the patient bough. He has too much will of his own by half. 



164 



LITTLE JUSTINE. 



And he does not like to be led away 
From his mother's side in the early day ; 
Where the little maid's feet so lightly go, 
He veers about and he trots so slow. 



" 'Tis a lovely place I shall tether you in, 
There are many there of your kith and kin : 
You'll not be lonesome, there's plenty to eat, 
You must learn to nibble the grass so sweet," 



He'd say, if only the power had he, 
" Justine, why couldn't you let me be ? 
I'd rather go back at once, if you please. 
To ycnder barn by the poplar trees." 



But little Justine with a merry laugh 

Cries, " Hurry, my beautiful bossy calf ! 

You will have nothing to do all day 

But to sleep and to eat and to frisk and to play. 




WITH THE PRETTIEST BOSSY THAT EVER WAS SEEN. 



"O milk is good and clover is tough. 

And I haven't begun to have breakfast enough : 

And I know the pasture you lead me to 

Is cold and wet with the frosty dew." 



The wind blows her pretty blue cloak away 
From her scarlet skirt and her apron gray, 
And ruffles the mass of her yellow hair, 
And kisses her cheeks that are rosy and fair. 



And she looks so charming and blithe and gay 
As she trips so carelessly down the way! 
But the bossy hangs back, and " O dear," thinks he, 
" Justine, how I wish you would let me be ! " 




IHE NEST IN THE WIND. 



HER PROOF.— THE CHRISTMAS GIFT. 



i6f 



HER PROOF. 

By M. E. W, 



SHE lifted her finger solemn and slow : 
" 'Tis true, for certain and sure, / know. 
And I think when I say so you ought to believe — 
21key kneel in their stalls on Christmas Eve. 



" Once, ages and ages ago it was, 
I thought I would see for myself, because 
I doubted a little, just like you, 
Whether or no the story was true ; 



"The red one, the white one, the speckled and brown, 
When the clock strikes twelve, will all kneel down. 
And it happens so every Christmas Eve, 
"• Well, I'll tell you this, if you won't believe : 



" And so one Christmas Eve I staid 
Awake till twelve — O I was afraid ! 
The wind was a-blowing, and no moon shonc^ 
But I went to the stable myself, alone. 



" And when I had slid the big doors back 

I couldn't go in, it was so black ; 

But — solemn and true — I do declare 

/ heard the cows when they knelt down I There ! ' 



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT. 



By Celia Thaxter. 



OYOU dear little dog, all eyes and fluff ! 
How can I ever love you enough ? 
How was it, I wonder, that any one knew 
I wanted a little dog, just like you ? 
With your jet black nose, and each sharp-cut ear, 
And the tail you wag — O you are so dear ! 
Did you come trotting through all the snow 
To find my door, I should like to know ? 
Or did you ride with the fairy team 
Of Santa Claus, of which children dream. 
Tucked all up in the furs so warm. 
Driving like mad over village and farm, 
O'er the country drear, o'er the city towers, 
Until you stopped at this house of ours ? 
Did you think 'twas a little girl like me 
You were coming so fast thro' the snow to see ? 
Well, whatever way you happened here, 
You are my pet and my treasure dear — 



Such a Christmas present ! O such a joy! 
Better than any kind of a toy ! 
Something that eats and drinks and walks, 
And looks so lovely and almost talks ; 
With a face so comical and wise, 
And such a pair of bright brown eyes I 
I'll tell you something : The other day 
I heard papa to my mamma say 
Very softly, " I really fear 
Our baby may be quite spoiled, my dear. 
We've made of our darling such a pet, 
I think the little one may forget 
There's any creature beneath the sun 
Beside herself to waste thought upon." 
I'm going to show him what I can do 
For a dumb little helpless thing like you, 
I'll not be selfish and slight you, dear ; 
Whenever I can I shall keep you near ; 



i6S 



THE CHRISTMAS GIFT. 




A DEAR LITTLB MISTRESS. 



itH never forget, whate'er befall, 
You cannot speak for yourself at all ; 
Iwill remember that you are dumb, 
And cannot ask for a single crumb ; 
Tou shall have all that a dog can need. 
Food and kindness and care indeed ; 
A pretty, warm bed, for your dear sake, 



In a woven basket I shall make ; 
No rude boys shall your mind perplej^ 
No teasing shall your temper vex, 
And you'll love me and I'll love you, 
And we'll be faithful and kind and true; 
And as sweet a Christmas gift I'll be 
To you, my dear, as you are to me. 



HA PPINESS. — THE QUEST. 



169 



HAPPINESS. 

WHILE I sought Happiness, she fled 
Before me constantly ; 
Weary I turned to Duty's path, 

And Happiness sought me, 
Saying, " I walk this road to-day, 

I'll bear thee company."' 




GOING TO SEE THE SPHINX. 



THE QUEST. 

OH ! -whither are you sailing, my bonny little And why are you thus sailing, my bonny little 

maiden, maiden, 

Oh ! whither are you sailing across the ocean Why are you thus sailing upon the bright blue 

deep ? sea ? 

"While south the wind is veering, my bonny boat "To see the Sphinx I'm going, while fresh the wind 

I'm steering, is blowing, 

And whether shade or sunshine, my onward To ask her just to answer one questior *aith- 

course I keep." fully." 



170 



TAKING THE MORNING AIR. 



And after all this sailing, my bonny little maiden, 
What riddle are you wanting the wise SphnLx to 
unlock? 
" I want to know the reason, no matter what the 
season, 
That little girls must always go to bed at eight 
o'clock." 

And while you thus are sailing, my bonny little 
maiden. 
What is the store of precious freight your bark 
takes o'er the sea ? 



Replied the little maiden, "With flowers it is 
laden 
That I have gathered for the Sphinx, if she will 
answer me." 

May I go sailing with you, my bonny little maiden ? 
I'd like upon your bonny boat a passenger to 
be. 
"Oh! yes, and we together, come fair or stormy 
weather. 
Will sailing go to see the Sphinx across the 
wide blue sea." 




TAKING THE MORNING AIR. 

^^ /^^-rf <r^ 



BRING me a pretty painted fan, 
Bring me a parasol ; 
Bring me a dress of scarlet silk 
For my dearest little doll." 

Here's a roseleaf, a roseleaf for a fan, 

And a fern for a parasol ; 
Here's a dress of scarlet silk 

For your dearest little doll 



Here is a little rosy shell 

Just your dolly's size ; 
And, harnessed with finest cobweb thread 

Here are six butterflies. 

" Bring me a coachman, if you please, 

For my dearest little doll. 
How can she drive the butterflies, 

And carry her parasol ? " 



" Bring me a carriage lined with pink, 
Bring me of ponies a pair ; 

My dearest dolly would like to ride 
And get the morning air." 



Here is a beetle, black and big — 

He is a coachman rare ; 
Now what is to hinder the dearest doll 

From taking the morning air ? 




ATHER GERVAYSE by the Holy Rood 
d^ Fasting and faint at even stood. 

Long had he been on his wearj- way : 
From dawn to dusk of a summer day. 

He was no monk from the convent cell, 
Blessing and banning with book and bell ; 

Simple, and guileless, and trustful he 
As the children that clustered about his 
knee. 




^li)^t7gjr 





And the honest folk, in friendly mood. 
Gave him shelter and warmth and food — 

Seeing that fever, nor frost, nor fire. 
Howl of the wolf, nor hurt of the brier. 

Could hold his feet from pathways wild 
To save or solace a little child. 

His hand the lost one homeward led ; 
His shoulder pillowed the weary head ; 

His words brought peace to the brow of 

pain, 
And smiles to the quivering lips again; 




172 



THE CHILD R EN' S SAINT. 




With sacred story and holy song 

He gathered closer the childish throng ; 



But here in the houseless wood at last, 
Worn with the way, and the day-long fast, 



And he was called, in their language quaint, 
Father Gervayse, the Children's Saint. 



Under the heavens' encircling sweep 
Father Gervayse lay down to sleep. 



None knew for him there another name. 
Out of a distant land he came. 



Yet out of that sleep he seemed to rise, 
And scale the heights of the midnight skies> 



And in his wanderings up and down. 
By lonely farmstead or busy town, 



Along a ladder of gold that fell 
From the Golden City invisible ! 



Well had the people learned to know 
The stooping form, with its locks of snow, 



But, as he climbed to the topmost bar. 
There lightened above, like a bursting star, 



And gaze far seeking along the road 
The visible signs of the Lord's abode ! 



As through the warder's gate of gold 
The unbarred glory of Heaven rolled ! 



Scarce would even the veriest hind 

Mock at that dream of the darkened mind — 



And out of the light there came a sound ; 

" What doest thou hear, O Soul uncrowned ?" 



The mirage-vision that seemed to rise 
And flit away from his dazzled eyes. 



And Father Gervayse, at that warning tone. 
Shrank backward into the dark alone. 



Yet drew him ever, with manifold gleam, 
The Beautiful City of his dream ! 



How should he hope to enter in, 

Who had not thought of a crown to win? 



THE CHILDREN' S SAINT. 



173 



Lo ! a scent on the startled air ! 
Rose and lily blossoming there, 

As past the warder a cherub band 

Came with a flower in each shininsr hand ! 



From every tear a lily born, 

A blood-red rose from every thorn ; 

Two by two on the shining stem, 

The fruit of the love he had borne to them. 



And Father Gervayse in the childish train 
Knew each transfigured face again : 



And straight through the glory they led him in 
Who had not thought of a crown to win ! 




The children's faces day by day 
Buried from mortal sight away. 

And, while he gazed, they crowned him there 
With flowers he had scattered unaware ; 

Irom streaming eyes and from bleeding feet 
Sprung under his way through brier and heat ; 



Still, at dawn, in the houseless wood, 
His head on the foot of the Holy Rood, 

With a restful smile on the lips' unrest, 
And a heart at peace in the burdened breast ; 

Lay Father Gervayse, the Children's Saint; 
Nevermore weary, or sick, or faint, 



Since the hand of a child had led him in 
To the Beautiful City he sought to win 1 



174 



A BUILDER'S LESSON. — A DREAM OF DOLLS. 



A B U I L D E R'S LESSON. 



How shall I a habit break?" 
As you did that habit make. 
As you gathered, you must lose ; 
As you yielded, now refuse. 
Thread by thread the strands we twist 
Till they bind us, neck and wrist ; 
Thread by thread the patient hand 
Must untwine, ere free we stand. 
As we builded, stone by stone. 
We must toil, unhelped, alone, 
Till the wall is overthrown. 

But remember, as we try. 
Lighter every test goes by : 
Wading in, the stream grows deep 
Toward the centre's downward sweep; 
Backward turn, each step ashore 
Shallower is than that before.- 

Ah, the precious years we waste 
Levelling what we raised in haste : 
Doing what must be undone 
Ere content or love be won ! 
First, across the gulf we cast 
Kite-borne threads, till lines are passed, 
And habit builds the bridge at last ! 




A DREAM OF DOLLS. 



By Ida Whipple Benham. 



I WOKE up in my chamber, 
I sat up in my bed ; 
A light wind crossed the casement, 
Just kissed me and then fled. 

The slender moon in heaven 
Smiled softly through the gloi 



And I heard a peal of laughter 
Go rippling through the room. 

The sweetest, tiniest laughter 
That ever maiden heard, 

As light as fairy music. 
As sweet as singing bird. 



^MAI^^Ww&^T 






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A DREAM OF DOLLS. 



177 



And lisping lips said gayly, 
"Just see our dolly there — 

Who'll wash her ? and who'll dress her ? 
And who will comb her hair? 



A hundred playful dollies 
Laughed sweetly, full of glee; 

Their dollies were my playmates, 
Live little girls like me. 



" Let's curl it, and let's crimp it ; 

Let's dress her in a dress ; 
And shall we call her Daisy, 

Or Lillibel, or Bess ? 



They laid us in the moonlight — 
Our dolly-mammas gay — 

All in a row they laid us, 
Then hastened off to play. 




• THEY WASHED AND CRIMFED AND CURLE 



" And when we get her ready 
We'll take her out to play ; 

She's ours, our doll at midnight. 
Though we ar; hers all da}'." 



They spread a feast of dainties, 
Rare fruits and candies sweet; 

They said, " 'Tis such a pity 
Our dollies cannot eat! " 



And then they fell upon me 
With mingled hands so small ; 

They washed and crimped and curled me, 
And dressed me for a ball. 



They danced in airy circles 
Among the shadows dim — 

They danced, and sang, and chatted; 
We could not move a limb. 



They bore me soft, so softl}*. 
All down the winding stair. 

They bore me to the play-ground — 
A hundred dolls were there. 



I sprung up in my chamber, 
I pinched myself in bed — 

The dollies all had vanished. 
My funny dream had fled. 



ART NEEDLEWORK. 




THE LITTLE DORCAS. 



ART NEEDLEWORK. 



1821-1884. 



.*€fe^a^/^2.-> i^^'^'-z^^S^*^ 



THIS is the sampler, worn and frayed, 
Stiff, ancient, ugly — have it so — 
By childish hands demurely made 
Some sixty years ago ! 



A sober needle-woman she, 

Serenely calm, immensely good ; 

Beside her grandma's silken knee 
Her yellow hassock stood. 



When struck the great clock on the wall, 
The little Dorcas left her play. 

Brought out her canvas from the hall 
And gravely stitched away. 



Perhaps — of course it mayn't be true — 
Before the final stitch was set 

She shed an angry tear or two 
Above the alphabet ! 



Not hers the gifts of every shore. 
The chosen spoils of every sun ; 

She'd watched the very frock she wore 
Sheared, carded, dyed and spun ! 



Perhaps, when grandma smoothed her gown. 
Dropped her blue sock and nodded, so. 

The model maid did really frown ; 
I wasn't there, you know 1 



ART NEEDLEWORK. 



179 



Perhaps! P.at sixty changing years 
Have left for us a witness still, 

Unconscious of the pouts and tears 
And proving all her skill : 



Her old cracked plate of dingy delf, 
The bowl she supped in every night, 

Are treasured on the choicest shelf 
And hoarded with delight ! 



A mimic garden, prim and fine, 

A sprawling date in green and gray. 

The letters ranged in double-line, 
And " Wrought by Dorcas May." 



That huge old clock with broken springs 
Would make her wonder why and how 

Those ugly, crooked, common things 
Are " so delicious " now i 



. . . This is a precious modern maze ■ 
Soft silk and knotted broidery. 

Shaped in the last aesthetic craze 
By smallest devotee ! 



Ah ! she herself, demure and wise, 
Intently stitching day by day. 

Would figure in my lady's eyes 
" h. perfect Greenaway ! " 




SHE DOES IT WHEN THE SPIRIT MOVES. 



She does it when the spirit moves — 
Takes one mis-stitch and lets it go — 

Scolds at the crumpled rose she loves : 
" The silks will pucker so ! " 



My pretty maid, whose every line 
Is fashioned to a poet's heart. 

You laugh at grandma's crude design, 
Her queer, old-fashioned art ; 



Could little Dorcas stand with me 

To watch, big-eyed, such modern bliss, 

Of all the curious things she'd see 
The strangest one is this : 



But when some sixty years go by 
And other hands possess the earth, 

Your own enchanting tapestry 
May move a childish mirth ! 



j8o 



THE SEASON THAT JS COMING. 



.. .yWJm, 



> ^ '-•''' i 




THE SEASON THAT IS COMING. 



^ 



SWEET, Sweet, sweet is the season that is coming ; 
Sweet the wayside wild rose and the wild bee's humming; 
Sweet the pink azalia in the woods' recesses. 
Sweet the nodding barberry buds, wearing yellow dresses, 
Sweet the scarlet columbine climbing up the ledges. 
Sweet the pale anemone in the forest edges. 
Sweet the rosy apple blooms, sweet the birds among them, 
Sweet the petals in the grass where the winds have flung them. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet are the gardens overflowing 

With pinks and yellow marigolds, and mignonette a-blowing, 

With four-o'clocks and London-pride, and pretty pansy faces, 

With honeysuckle by the wall, and roses in all places; 

And sweet the happy children who come from days of duty 

To find the fair earth all a-bloom, a place of perfect beauty ; 

Books thrown away, they laugh and play, with sun and sweet winds blowing, 

A rose blooms out on every cheek, and pinks in the lips are growing. 



Sweet the breeze-blown pastures with violets running over ; ' 

Sweet the meadows stretching wide crowded with white clover ; 

Sweet the thickets starred with flowers and flushed with growing berries, 

And pretty dinners set for birds of rose-hips and wild cherries • 

Sweet the corners dim and deep where floating boughs are meeting, 

And little lovers come and go with songs of happy greeting ; 

Sweet the fronds of fairy fern in hidden nooks unfolding ; 

Sweet the thoughts in loving hearts these lovely things beholding. 



TEE THREE SONS. 



THE THREE SONS. 

I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years 
old, 

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind 
of gentle mould. 

They tell me that unusual grace in all his 
ways appears. 

That my child is grave and wise of heart be- 
yond his childish years. 



But that which others most admire, is the 
thought which fills his mind, 

The food for grave inquiring speech he every- 
where doth find. 

Strange questions doth he ask of me, when 
we together walk ; 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks 
as children talk. 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes 
not on bat or ball. 




I cannot say how this may be ; I know his 

face, is fair — 
And yet his chiefest comelmess is his sweet 

and serious air ; 
I know his heart is kind and fond ; I know 

he loveth me ; 
But loveth yet his mother more with grateful 

fervency. 



But looks on manhood's ways and works, and 

aptly mimics all. 
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes 

perplext 
With thoughts about this world of ours, and 

thoughts about the next. 
He kneels at his dear mother's knee ; she 

teacheth him to pray ; 



lS2 



THE THREE SQNS. 



And strange, and sweet, and solemn then are 
the words which he will say. 

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to man- 
hood's years like me, 

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will 
be; 

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his 
thoughtful brow, 

I dare not think what I should feel were I to 
lose him now. 



A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheer- 
ful tone, 

Will sing his little song of love, when left to 
sport alone. 

His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 
home and hearth. 

To comfort us in all our griefs : God grant his 
heart may prove 

As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now 
for earthly love ; 



^5 




'A Second Son, A Simple Child of Three.' 



I have a son, a second son, a simple child of 

three; 
I'll not declare how bright and fair his little 

features be. 
How silver sweet those tones of his when he 

prattles on my knee ; 
I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his 

brother's, keen. 
Nor his brow so full of childish thoughts as 

his hath ever been ; 
But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind 

and tender feeling ; 
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich 

depths of love revealing. 
When he walks with me the country folk, who 

pass us in the street. 
Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks 

so mild and sweet. 



And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching 

eyes must dim, 
God comfort us for all the love which we 

shall lose in him. 



I have a son, a third sweet son ; his age I 
cannot tell. 

For they reckon not by years and months 
where he is gone to dwell. 

To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant 
smiles were given ; 

And then he bade farewell to Earth, and went 
to live in Heaven. 

I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he 
weareth now. 

Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shin- 
ing seraph brow. 



The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the 

bliss which he doth feel 
Are numbered with the secret things which 

God will not reveal. 
But I know (for God hath told me this) that 

he is now at rest, 
Where the blessed infants be on their Saviour's 

loving breast. 
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load 

of flesh, 
But his sleep is blessed with endless 

dreams of joy forever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close be- 
neath their glittering wings, 
And soothe him with a song that breathes 

of Heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe, 

(his mother dear and I,) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all 

tears from every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his 

bliss can never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, 

but his is certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles 

their souls from bliss may sever ; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he 

must be ours forever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and 

what we still must be — 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss 

and this world's misery — 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and 

feel this grief and pain — 
Oh! we'd rather lose another two, than have 

him here again. 

John Moultrie. 

SUNDAY NIGHT. 

Three little curly heads golden and fair, 
Three pairs of hands that are lifted in prayer. 
Three little figures in garments of white. 
Three little mouths that are kissed for good- 
night. 
Three little gowns that are folded away, 
Three little children who rest from their play, 



SUNDAY NIGBT. 183 

Three little hearts that are full of delight, 
For this is the close of a sweet Sunday night. 

And mamma had clustered them all round her 

knee, 
And made them as happy as children could be ; 
She told to them stories of Jesus of old 
Who called little children like lambs to Hi& 

fold: 




** Sweet, Earnest Talk." 

Who gathered them up in His arms to caress. 

And blessed them as only a Saviour could 
bless, 

While the innocent faces grew tender and' 
bright 

With the sweet, earnest talk of the calm Sun- 
day night. 



io4 



TUE SUNDAY BABY. 



And the blue eyes of Bennie had widen'd 

with fear, 
While Maidie had dropped an occasional tear, 
When they heard of the lions and Daniel so 

bold, 
And Joseph who once by his brethren was 

sold. 
And the children who walked 'mid the furnace 

of flame. 
Till the Angel of God in his purity came, 
Walking unharmed in their garments of 

white, — 
Oh, these were sweet stories to hear Sunday 

night ! 

And Maidie hadsaid — the dear little child- 
Looking up in the face of her mother so mild, 
■"I vvish — oh, so much! — I wish, mamma 

dear, 
When the angels were walking they'd come 

to us here ; 
I'd like once to see them, so shining and fair, 
Come floating and floating right down through 

the air. 
Let's ask them to come," said the wee little 

sprite, 
•" Let's ask them to come to ns this Sunday 

night." 

Then mamma told in her grave, gentle way. 

How the angels were guarding the children 
each day ; 

How they stood softly round by the little one's 
bed, 

How the blessings descended alike on each 
head ; 

But when they were naughty or willfully bad, 

Then the Father was grieved and His angels 
were sad. 

■" Ah, I mean to be good," lisped the baby, 
" and then 

I may see them sometime when they're com- 
ing to Ben ! " 

■Oh, the innocent children! How little they 
know 

Of the dear eyes in heaven bent on them be- 
low; 



Of the guardian spirits, who close by their side 

Are watching and waiting to strengthen ar.d 
guide ; 

And now, as they lie wrapped in dreams and 
in sleep. 

How ceaseless the vigils the angels will keep! 

And mamma prays, " Father, oh, guide them 
aright. 

And send Thy good angels to guard them to- 
night ! " 



THE SUNDAY BABY. 

You wonderful little Sunday child I 
Half of your fortune scarce you know. 

Although you have blinked and winked and 
smiled 
Full seven and twenty days below. 

" The bairn that was born on Sabbath day," 
So say the old wives over their glass — 

" Is bonny and healthy, and wise and gay ! " 
What do you think of that, my lass ? 

Health and wisdom, and beauty and mirth ! 
And (as if that were not enough for a 
dower). 
Because of the holy day of your birth. 

Abroad you may walk in the gloaming's 
hour. 

When we, poor bodies, with backward look, 
Shiver and quiver and quake with fear 

Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and spook. 
Never a thought need you take, my dear. 

For " Sunday's child" may go where it please. 

Sunday's child shall be free from harm ! 
Right down through the mountain side it sees 

The mines unopened where jewels swarm ! 

Oh, fortunate baby ! Sunday lass I 

The veins of gold through the rocks you'll 
see ; 
And when o'er the shining sands you pass. 
You can tell where the hidden springs may 
be. 



A BABY snow. 



The children were drawing with caution and 

care, 
Tlieir sweet baby-sister, to give her the 

air. 
In a dainty straw wagon with wheels of 

bright red, 
And a top of white muslin which shaded 

her head. 
She was only one year and a few months 

old; 
Her eyes were bright blue and her hair 

was like gold; 



185 

Such a wonderful plaything never was known f 
Like a real live dolly, and all for their own ! 
Two happier children could nowhere be founds 
No, not if you travelled the whole world around. 







" In a Dainty Straw Wagon with Wheels of Bright red, 



She laughed all the time from morning till 
night. 

Till Eddie and Jane were quite wild with de- 
light. 



They had drawn her this morning v.here 

daisies grew — 
White daisies, all shining and dripping witb 

dew, 



iS6 



A BABY snow. 



Long wreaths of the daisies, and chains, they 

had made ; 
in the baby's lap these wreaths they had laid. 

And were laughing to watch her fat little 

hands 
"Untwisting and twisting the stems and the 

strands. 
Just then, of a sudden, a lark flew by 
And sang at the top of his voice in the sky ; 
"Ho! ho! Mr. Lark," shouted Jane, "come 

down here ! 
We're not cruel children. You may come 

without fear. 
We've something to show you. In all your 

life maybe 
You'll never see anything sweet as our baby ! " 

'Twas an odd thing, now, for a lark to do — 
I hope you won't think my story's untrue — 
But this is the thing that I saw and I heard : 
That lark flew right down, like a sociable bird, 
As soon as they called him, and perched on a 

tree, 
And winked with his eye at the children and 

me. 
And laughed out, as much as a bird ever can, 
As he cried, "Ha! ha! Little woman and 

man! 

■"You'll be quite surprised and astonished, 

maybe, 
To hear that I do not think much of your 

baby. 
Why, out in the field here I've got in my 

nest, 
All cuddled up snug 'neath my wife's warm 

breast. 
Four little babies — two sisters, two brothers — 
And all with bright eyes, as bright as their 

mother's ; 
Your baby's at least ten times older than they, 
But they are all ready to fly to-day ; 

"They'll take care of themselves in another 

week. 
Before your poor baby can walk or can speak. 



If has often surprised me to see what poor 

things 
All babies are that are born without wings; 
And but one at a time ! Dear me, my wife 
Would be quite ashamed of so idle a life ! " 
And the lark looked as scornful as a lark 

knows how. 
As he swung up and down on a slender bough. 

A cat had been eying him there for a while. 
And sprang at him now from top of a stile. 
But she missed her aim — he was quite too 

high ; 
And oh, how he laughed as he soared in the 

sky! 
Then the cat scrambled up, disappointed and 

cross; 
She looked all about her, and felt at a loss 
What next she should do. So she took up 

the thread 
Of the lark's discourse, and ill-naturedly said : 
"Yes, indeed, little master and miss, I de- 
clare. 
It's enough to make any mother-cat stare. 
To see what a time you do make, to be sure, 
Over one small creature, so helpless and poor 
As your babies are ! Why, I've six of my 

own : 
When they were two weeks old they could run 

alone ; 
They're never afraid of dogs or of rats — 
In a few weeks more they'll be full-growij 

cats ; 

"Their fur is as fine and as soft as silk — 
Two gray, and three black, and one white as 

new milk. 
A fair fight for a mouse in my family 
Is as pretty a sight as you'll ever see. 
It is all very well to brag of your baby — 
One of these years it will be something, 

maybe ! " 
And without even looking at the baby's face, 
The cat walked away at a sleepy pace. 

" Moo, Moo ! " said a cow, coming up. " Mo(^ 
Moo! 



MY BEAUTIFUL " TICK-A-TOCK.' 



"Voung people, you're making a great to-do 
About your baby. And the lark and the cat, 
They're nothing but braggers — I wouldn't 

give that," 
(And the cow snapped her tail as you'd snap 

your thumb) 
"For all the babies, and kittens, and birds, 

that come 
In the course of a year ! It does make me 

laugh 
To look at them all, by the side of a calf ! 

"Why, my little Brindle as soon as 'twas 

born 
Stood up on its legs, and sniffed at the corn ; 
Before it had been in the world an hour 
It began to gambol, and canter, and scour 
All over the fields. See its great shining eyes, 
And its comely red hair that so glossy lies 
And thick ! he has never felt cold in his life ; 
But the wind cuts your baby's skin like a 

knife. 

" Poor shivering things ! I have pitied them 

oft, 
All muffled and smothered in flannel soft. 
Ha ! ha ! I am sure t'" > stupidest gaby 
Can see that a calf's ^ad of a baby ! " 
And the cow called her calf, and tossed up 

her head. 
Like a person quite sure of all she has said. 
ITien Jane looked at Eddy, and Eddy at Jane ; 
Said Eddy, "How mean! I declare, they're 

too vain 

" To live — preposterous things ! They don't 

know 
What they're talking about ! I'd like them to 

show 
A bird, or a kitten, or a learned calf, 
That can kiss like our baby, or smile, or 

laugh." 

" Yes, indeed, so should I ! " said Jane in a 

rage; 
"The poor little thing ! She's advanced for 

her age, 



1S7 

For the minister said so the other day — 
She's worth, a hundred kittens or calves to 
play. 

" And as for young birds — they're pitiful 

things ! 
I saw a whole nest once, all mouths and bare 

wings, 
And they looked as if they'd been picked by 

the cook 
To broil for breakfast. I'm sure that they 

shook 
With cold if their mother got off for a min- 
ute — 
I'm glad we have flannel, and wrap babies in 

it!" 
So the children went grumbling one to the 

other. 
And when they reached home they told their 

mother. 

The dear baby, asleep, in its crib she laid, 
And laughed as she kissed the children, and 

said : 
" Do you think I believe that the sun can 

shine 
On a boy or a girl half so sweet as mine ? 
The lark, and the cat, and the cow were all 

right — 
Each baby seems best in its own mother's 

sight ! " 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 




MY BEAUTIFUL « TICK-A-TOCK-" 

And so my fairy little elf 

Would like to stand upon the shelf ! 

Thinks all a good clock has to do 

Is just to " tick " the whole day throughl 



1 88 "OF SUCH IS TIIE KINGDOM OF GOD." 

Well, here she goes; now, one, two, three; 1 Two cheeks, two dimples — oh, dear me, 
Keep time ? of course ; well, we shall see ! | Where shall we find a number i/iree/ 




Thb Beautiful "Tickta-Tock.' 



No clock had e'er a brighter face : 
The numbers now we'll quickly trace : 
One nose — that surely stands for one; 
Two eyes — that's iwo ; we're well begun ; 



The pendulum I cannot find — 
Now it swings two coral lips behind; 
The hands are gone — ah! here 

they come ; 
A blue-eyed rogue has brought them 

home. 
Now we're all ready ; here we go ; 
"Tuk-tock.i" not fast, "Tick-tockf" 

nor slow. 

Tic-tock!" Don't laugh so all the 

while — 
Who ever saw a dial smile ? 
Don't move your eyes, or I shall 

think 
That number two has learned to 

wink ; 
Be ever grave, and never gay, 
And just forever " tick " away. 

" Ting-a-ling-ling-ling!" Now papa'll 
say, 

"What a booful clock 'oo bought 
to-day ! " 

— Ah ! no, to his out-stretched arms 
she springs. 

And I find my new French clock 
has wings ; 

And look with regret on the empty 
space 

Where stood my clock with the ra- 
diant face. 

Louise S. Upham. 



"OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM 
OF GOD." 



I think when I read that sweet story 
of old. 
When Jesus was here among men. 
How he called little children as lambs to his 
fold ; 
I should like to have been with them then. 



'OF SUCH IS THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.' 




"Let the little Ones comb unto Me, 

I wish that his hands had been placed on my 
head, 
That his arm had been thrown around me, 
And that I might have seen his kind look 
when he said, 
" Let the little ones come unto me." 



Yet still to his footstool in prayer I may gOj 
And ask for a share in his love ; 



And if I thus earnestly seek him below, 
I shall see him and hear him above, 



In that beautiful place he has gone to pre- 
pare 
For all who are washed and forgiven ; 
And many dear children shall be with him 
there. 
For of such is the kingdom of heaven. 



190 



MAKE CHILDHOOD SWEET. 



But thousands and thousands who wander 
and fall 
Never heard of that heavenly home ; 
I wish they could know there is room for them 
all, 
And that Jesus has bid them to come. 

I long for the joy of that glorious time, 
The sweetest, the brightest, the best ; 
When the dear little children of every 
clime 
Shall crowd to his arms and be blest! 

Mrs. Jemima Thompson Luke. 



Wait not till the little hearts are still. 
For the loving look and phrase ; 

But while you gently chide a fault, 
The good deed kindly praise. 

The word you would speak beside the bier 

Falls sweeter far on the living ear; 
Oh, fill young lives with sweetness ! 

Ah, what are kisses on clay-cold lips 

To the rosy mouth we press, 
When our wee one flies to her mother's 
arms, 

For Love's tenderest caress? 




>±a-A'..,k'*^.; 




'"-' '" '"'''^^■"'«' "■■■"* 



Sweet Childhood. 



MAKE CHILDHOOD SWEET. 

Wait not till the little hands are at rest 
Ere you fill them full of flowers ; 

Wait not for the crowning tuberose 
To make sweet the last sad hours; 

But while in the busy household band, 

Your darlings still need your guiding hand, 
Oh, fill their lives with sweetness! 



Let never a worldly bauble keep 
Your heart from the joy each day should 
reap. 
Circling your lives with sweetness. 

Give thanks each morn for the sturdy boys, 

Give thanks for the fairy girls ; 
With a dower of wealth like this at home. 

Would you rifle the earth for pearls ? 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 



191 



Wait not for death to gem love's crown, 
But daily shower life's blessings down, 

And iiU young hearts with sweetness. 
Remember the homes where the light has 
fled, 

Where the rose has faded away; 
And the love that glows in youthful hearts, 

Oh, cherish it while you may! 
And make your home a garden of flowers, 
Where joy shall bloom, through childhood's 
hours, 

And fill young lives with sweetness. 

THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 

A baby was sleeping ; 
Its mother was weeping; 
For her husband was far on the wild rag- 
ing sea; 
And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling; 
And she cried, "Dermot, darling, O 

come back to me ! " : 



Her beads while she 

numbered, 
The baby still slum- 
bered, 
And smiled in her 
face as she bended 

her knee : 
" O, blest be that 

warning, 
My child, thy sleep 
adorning, 
For I know that the angels 
are whispering with 
thee. 



"And while they are 

keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy 
sleeping, 
O, pray to them softly, 
my baby, with me! 








And say thou wouldst rather 
They'd watch o'er thy father! 
For I know that the angels are whispering So 
thee." 



The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning. 
And the wife wept with joy her babe s father 
to see ; 
And closely caressing 
Her child with a blessing, 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering 
with thee." 

Samuel Lover. 



GOOD-NIGHT! 




GOOD-NIGHT ! 



Good-night, little girl, good-night ! 

It's getting to be so late, 
I'm sure yov. will know it is right 

To smile, and accept your fate ; 

Good-night, little girl, don't wait. 

Good-night, little girl, good-night ! 

It's pleasant for you to play, 
Eut the robins have taken flight, 



And are tucked in f/iar nests away ; 
Good-night, little girl, don't stay. 

Good-night, little girl ! sweet rest 

Is needful as air and light. 
And the sun that sleeps in the west. 
To-morrow will look so bright, — 
Just think, little girl ! good-night ! 
Little girl, good-night ! 

Mrs. L. C. Whiton, 




THE LITTLE MAIDEIf AND TBE LITTLE BIRD. 
THE LITTLE MAIDEN AND THE LITTLE BIRD. 



193 



" Little bird ! little bird ! come to me ! 

I have a green cage ready for thee, — 
Beauty-bright flowers I'll bring anew, 

And fresh, ripe cherries, all wet with dew." 




' Little Bird, Comb to Me ! " 



"Thanks, little maiden, for all thy care, 
But I love dearly the clear, cool air, 

And my snug little nest in the old oak-tree.' 
"Little bird! little bird! stay with rr.e.' 

"Nay, little damsel ! away I'll fly 
To greener fields and warmer sky; 



194 



A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 




"God is love forevermore ; 
Love we him, and him adore 
In the Christ-child born of yore. 

Let your lives ring out his praise 
Like a chime his finger sways : 
Sweet as carols be your days. 

Beautiful with holiness, 

Let your daily deeds confess 

In whose name ye seek to bless. 

This is what the carols mean ; 
What the chime rung clear between ; 
What the bounteous evergreen. 

Harriet McEwen Kimball. 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

There's a song in the air ! 
There's a star in the sky ! 
There's a mother's deep prayer 
And a baby's low cry ; 



And the star rains its fire while the beautiful 

sing. 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king ! 

There's a tumult of joy 

O'er the wonderful birth. 

For the Virgin's sweet boy 

Is the Lord of the earth. 
Ay, the star rains its fire, and the beautiful sing, 
For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king.' 

In the light of that star 

Lie the ages impearled ; 

And that song from afar 

Has swept over the world ; 
Every hearth is aflame, and the beautiful sing, 
In the homes of the nations, that Jesus is king ! 

We rejoice in the light. 

And we echo the song 

That comes down through the night 

From the heavenly throng. 
Ay, we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, 
And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King. 
J. G. Holland. 



MT DAUGHTER. 



195 



JUDGE NOT. 

Judge not! The workings of His brain 

And of His heart thou canst not see; 
What looks to thy dim eyes a stain, 

In God's pure light may only be 
A scar, brought from some well-won 

field. 
Where thou wouldst only faint and 
yield. 



Her lot is on thee, lovely child, 
God keep thy spirit undefiled ! 

I fear thy gentle loveliness, 
Thy witching tone and air ; 

Thine eyes beseeching earnestness 
May be to thee a snare. 



MY DAUGHTER. 

Bright as the skies that cover thee, 

Child of the sunny brow : 
Bright as the dream flung over thee, 

By all that meets thee, now : 
Thy heart is beating joyously. 

Thy voice is like a bird's ; 
And sweetly breaks the melody 

Of thy imperfect words ; 
I know no fount that gushes out 
As gladly as thy tiny shout. 

1 would that thou might'st ever be 

As beautiful as now : 
That time might ever leave as free 

Thy yet unwritten brow. 
I would life were " all poetry " 

To gentle measure set, 
That naught but chasten'd melody 

Might stain thy eye of jet ; 
Nor one discordant note be spoken. 
Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 

I would — but deeper things than these 

With woman's lot are wove : 
Wrought of intensest sympathies, 

And nerved by purest love : 
By the strong spirit's discipline, 

By the fierce wrong forgiven. 
By all that wrings the heart of sin, 

Is woman won to heaven. 




Sunny Brow.' 



The silver stars may purely shine, 

The waters taintless flow, 
But they who kneel at woman's shrine, 

Wreathe poisons as they bow ; 
She may fling back the gift again. 
But the crush'd flower will oftenest 
stain. 

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child ? 
Keep thee as thou art now ? 



196 



IF I COULD KEEP HER SO. 




" If I Could ivEjii' Hek So." 



IF I COULD KEEP BEE SO. 



197 



firing thee, a spirit undefiled, 
At God's pure throne to bow? 

The world is but a broken reed, 
And life grows early dim : 

Who shall be near thee in thy need. 
To lead thee up to Him ? 

He, who Himself was undefiled ? 

With Him we trust thee, beautiful child ! 
Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



IF I COULD KEEP HER SO. 

Just a little baby, lying in my arms. 

Would that I could keep you with your baby 
charms ; 

Helpless, clinging fingers ; downy golden hair, 

Where the sunshine lingers, caught from other- 
where ; 

Blue eyes asking questions, lips that cannot 
speak, 

Roly-poly shoulders, dimple in your cheek ; 

Dainty little blossom, in a world of woe ; 

Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. 

Roguish little damsel, scarcely six years old — 
Feet that never weary, hair of deeper gold ; 
Restless, busy fingers, all the time at play. 
Tongue that never ceases talking all the day ; 
Blue eyes learning wonders of the world 

about. 
Winsome little damsel, all the neighbors 

know; 
Thus I long to keep you, for I love you so. 

Sober little school-girl, with your strap of 
books. 

And such grave importance in your puzzled 
looks ; 

Solving weary problems, poring over sums, 

Yet with tooth for sponge cake and for sugar- 
plums ; 

Reading books of romance in your bed at 
night. 

Waking up to study in the morning light ; 

Anxious as to ribbons, deft to tie a bow. 

Full of contradictions — I would keep you so. 



Sweet and thoughtful maiden, sitting by my 

side. 
All the world's before you, and the world is 

wide ; 
Hearts are there for winning, hearts are there 

to break, 
Has your own, shy maiden, just begun to 

wake .'' 
Is that rose of dawning glowing on your 

cheek. 
Telling us in blushes what you will not speak ? 
Shy and tender maiden, I would fain forego 
All the golden future, just to keep you so ! 



All the listening angels saw that she was fair. 
Ripe for fair unfolding in the upper air ; 
Now the rose of dawning turns to lily white. 
And the close-shut eyelids veil the eyes from 

sight ; 
All the past I summon as I kiss her brow — 
Babe and child, and maiden, all are with me 

now ! 
Oh, my heart is breaking ; but God's love I 

know — 
Safe among the angels. He will keep her so ! 
Louise Chandler Moulton. 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN. 

Blessings on children, sweetest gifts of heaven 

to earth. 
Filling the heart with gladness, filling all the 

house with mirth ; 
Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures 

of the primal bloom. 
Which the bliss forever gladdens, of the re- 
gion whence they come ; 
Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state 

withouten care. 
And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all 

in nature fair; 
Not a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief 

to vex thee, nigh, 
And a hope that in existence finds each hour 

a luxury ; 



ON THE THRESHOLD. 



1 98 

Going singing, bounding, brightening 
— never fearing as tliey go, 

That the innocent shall tremble, and 
the loving find a foe ; 

In the daylight, in the starlight, still 
with thought that freely flies. 

Prompt and joyous, with no question 
of the beauty in the skies ; 

Genial fancies winning raptures, as 
the bee still sucks her store, 

All the present still a garden gleaned 
a thousand times before ; 

All the future but a region where the 
happy serving thought 

Still depicts a thousand blessings, by 
the winged hunter caught ; 

Life a chase where blushing pleasures 
only seem to strive in flight. 

Lingering to be caught, and yielding 
gladly to the proud delight; 

As the maiden, through the alleys, look- 
ing backward as she flies, 

Wooes the fond pursuer onward, with the love- 
light in her eyes. 

William Gilmore Simms. 

ON THE THRESHOLD. 

Standing on the threshold, 

With her wakening heart and mind, 
Standing on the threshold, 

With her childhood left behind; 
The woman softness blending 

With the look of sweet surprise 
For life and all its marvels 

That lights the clear blue eyes. 

Standing on the threshold. 

With light foot and fearless hand, 
As the young knight by his armor 

In minster nave might stand ; 
The fresh red lip just touching 

Youth's ruddy rapturous wine. 
The eager heart all brave, pure hope, 

Oh, happy child of mine ! 

I could guard the helpless infant 
That nestles in my arms: 




' Filling all the House with Mi] 



I could save the prattler's golden head 

From petty baby harms ; 
I could brighten childhood's gladness, 

And comfort childhood's tears, 
But I cannot cross the threshold 

With the step of riper years. 

For hopes, and joys, and maiden dreams 
Are waiting for her there, 




These Busy Religious Small People." 



THE CHILDBEirs CHUMCH. 




Where girlhood's fancies bud and bloom 

In April's golden air ; 
And passionate love, and passionate 
griefs, 

And passionate gladness lie 
\mong the crimson flowers that spring 

As youth goes fluttering by. 



kv_v,^^ 



''(v'ij/-^ Ah ! on those rosy pathways 
;'"*-> !?!"*■" ifeWM Ks'^* V ="• ^'i.'Il ■'■^ "° place for sobered feet, 

t^ '^tyi* I 1 S^ ^^X^'^m ^^y ^i'''^^^ ^y^s ^^^^ "^"g^^^ of strength 




Such fervid glow to meet ; 
■^fy voice is all too sad to sound 

Amid the joyous notes 
' f the music that through charmed air 

For opening girlhood floats. 

^ ;t thorns amid the leaves may lurk, 
^^C^ij,__ And thunder-clouds may 

\-jM^^'''-P^' ^ lower, 

^^■ItH ■^"'^ death, or change, or 
'^^'"l falsehood blight 

The jasmine in the bower; 
May God avert the woe, my 
child ; 
But oh, should tempest 
come. 
Remember, by the threshold 
waits 
The patient love of home ! 



THE CHILDREN'S 
CHURCH. 

The bells of the churches are 
ringing, — 
Papa and mamma have both 
gone — 
And three little children sit 
singing 
Together this still Sunday 



'Her Childhooq Left Behind." 



While the bells toll away in 
the steeple, 
Though too small to sit still 
in a pew, 



A STOBY TOLD TO GBACIE. 



These busy religious small people 
Determine to have their church too. 

So, as free as the birds, or the breezes 
By which their fair ringlets are fanned, 

Each rogue sings away as he pleases. 
With book upside down in his hand. 

Their hymn has no sense in its letter. 
Their music no rythm nor tune : 

Our worship, perhaps, may be better. 
But f/u'trs reaches God quite as soon. 



The anthems and worship of nations, 
Are poor to your innocent song. 

Sing on — our devotion is colder. 

Though wisely our prayers may be planned. 
For often we, too, who are older. 

Hold our book the wrong way in our hand. 

Sing on, — our harmonic inventions 

We study with labor and pain ; 
Yet often our angry contentions 

Take the harmony out of our strain. 




" Who Lives on Stories, and Whose Name is Grace." 



Their angels stand close to the Father ; 

His heaven is bright with these flowers , 
And the dear God above us would rather 

Hear praise from their lips than from ours. 

Sing on, little children, — your voices 
Fill the air with contentment and love ; 

All Nature around you rejoices 

And the birds warble sweetly above. 

Sing on, — for the proudest orations, 
The liturgies sacred and long, 



Sing on, — all our struggle and battle, 
Our cry when most deep and sincere, — • 

What are they? A child's simple prattle, 
A breath in the Infinite ear. 

From the German of Karl Gerok. 

Translated by J. F. Clarke, D.D. 

A STORY TOLD TO GRACIE. 

One day in Summer's glow 
Not many years ago, 
A little baby lay upon my knee. 



A STORT TOLD TO GUACIE. 



203 



With rings of silken hair, 
And fingers waxen fair, 
Tiny and soft, and pink as pink could be. 

We watched it thrive and grow. 

Ah me ! we loved it so — 
And marked its daily gain of sweeter charms ; 

It learned to laugh and crow. 

And play and kiss us — so — 
Until one day we missed it from our arms. 

In sudden, strange surprise. 

We met each other's eyes. 
Asking, " Who stole our pretty babe away .' " 

We questioned earth and air. 

But, seeking everywhere, 
We never found it from that summer day. 

But in its wonted place 

There was another face — 
A little girl's, with yellow curly hair 

About her shoulders tossed. 

And the sweet babe we lost 
Seemed sometimes looking from her eyes so 
fair. 

She dances, romps, and sings, 
And does a hundred things 



Which my lost baby never tried to do ; 

She longs to read in books, 

And with bright, eager looks 
Is always asking questions strange and new. 

And I can scarcely tell, 

I love the rogue so well, 
Whether I would retrace the four years' 
track, 

And lose the merry sprite. 

Who makes my home so bright, 
To have again my little baby back. 

Ah, blue-eyes ! do you see 

Who stole my babe from me, 
And brought the little girl from fairy clime ? 

A gray old man with wings. 

Who steals all precious things ; 
He lives forever, and his name is Time. 

He rules the world they say ; 
He took my babe away — 
My precious babe — and left me in its 
place 
This little maiden fair, 
With yellow curly hair. 
Who lives on stories, and whose name is 
Grace ! 




She Dances, Romps and Sings." 



A DANIEL COME TO JUDGMENT! 




IT'S strange as people grow older what lots of sense they lose, 
And how they get full of notions, and begin to pick and choose, 
And start on such strange ideas, and want such queer things done — 
Why, what is a fellow to live for, if he never can have any fun ! 

Now there are fathers and mothers, as good as good can be. 

But they fret if a boy goes coasting, for fear he'll run into a tree ; 

They fret if a boy goes skating, for fear he'll get a fall ; 

And they're sure that he'll come home broken, if he asks to play base-balL 

And as for stealing a ride as the big teams roll along, 
And as for a swim in the river, if the current be swift or strong, 
Or climbing a roof on a ladder, or shinning a good high pole — 
Why, they look at a boy if he tries it, as if he had got no soul ! 

They want you to enter a parlor and bow like a grown-up man ; 

They want you to move without racket — just show me the fellow who canl 

To come down stairs on tiptoes just creeping as still as a mouse, 

And to keep things quiet and chilly as if boys never lived in the house ! 

When you open your eyes in the morning and are lying awake in bed. 
They'd rather you wouldn't take pillows to shy at another one's head; 
They'd like you to talk in whispers and never to rant or shout, 
And empty your jacket pockets so they never would look bulged out. 

Then, in spite of all this nonsense, they'll look in a fellow's eyes 

As if you were the ones who were foolish, and they were the ones who were wise j 

You'd think as people grow older, they ought to grow wiser too, 

But / wouldn't make such blunders in talking to boys — would you ? 




MEMENTOES. 




THE BABY IN THE LIBRARY. 



THE DAME-SCHOOL. — TITE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE. 



207 



THE DAME-SCHOOL. 



By Anna F. Burnham, 



WITH frown and with ferule 
She holds her stern rule ; 
With voice all a-tinkle, 
And face all a-twinkle, , 
And never a wrinkle, 

She keeps a "dame-school." 

" Now ' a-b,' my children ! " 
She says with a tap ; 

But her dimples belie her ; 

You wish you could buy her, 

Cap, kerchief and tier, 
To hold in your lap. 

"My stollars act d'edful! 

Dey don't try to not ! " 
Her dread ferule waving, 
She says she'll "go raving' 
If papa keeps having 

The worst of the lot. 

But who thinks of minding 

A little school ma'am 
As sweet as a posy. 
So dimpled and rosy. 
You just want to cosey 
Her close in your arm ! 




AS SWEET AS A POSY. 



THE CIRCUS-DAY PARADE. 



OH the circus-day parade! How the bugles played and played ! 
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes, and neighed, 
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time 
Filled the hungry hearts of all of us with .melody sublime I 

How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its own, 
And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never known 1 
And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind, 
Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined I 

How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of white and blue, 

And of crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you, 

Waved the banners that they bore, as the knights in days of yore, 

Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles that they wore ! 



THE DANISH 



U^rt!.^g^i — 



EMIGRANTS. 




HE placed a letter in her hand, 
It came from over sea: 
■" We'll go to great America 

Where Hans and Gretel be. 
Hans has a field of growing wheat 

Broad as our own Lymfiord ! 
Why, wife, in that far wonderland 
A peasant is a lord ! " 



The wife knew well how poor and scant 

The barley grew this year ; 
Fifteen young mouths are many mouths 

To feed when bread is dear. 
" And, Hilda, where the children are 

Would soon be home, you know," 
The husband urged. " Aye, so it would," 

She answered, " we will go." 




Tit Danish wife grew very pale : 

" Think of our little ones ! 
How can we move so large a flock, 

Eight daughters, seven sons ? " 
*' One cannot tell," the husband laughed, 

" Really, until one tries. 
But we will show in freedom's land 

How blue are Danish eyes ! " 



The crop brought in a little fund ; 

The brindle cow was sold ; 
And long-familiar household things 

Went for a bit of gold. 
And then, at length, with tear and wail. 

Hand clasped the parting hand ; 
And for the steamer's heaving floor 

They left the stable land. 



THE DANISH EMIGRANTS. 



209 



The children, curious for the new, 

Went ranging here and there ; 
Shorn yellow heads and flaxen braids 

Were bobbing everywhere. 
The mother could not keep the half 

Under her sheltering wing ; 
" There's but one way," the father cried, 

" I'll tie them with a string." 

He called them all about him ; then. 

True to his jovial word, 
The thirteen that could walk he tied 

Together with a cord. 
Odd heights and sizes, girls and boys, 

A rosy laughing row ; 
None could escape, none steal away ; 

Where one went all must go. 



Ah, how the brown of sea wind came 

Upon each sturdy face. 
And how they clambered, peeped and played 

In every nook and place. 
And how, when tempest on them burst 

Out of a stormy sky. 
The waves were cradle-rock to them. 

The roar was lullaby. 

Thus arm to arm held fast and safe, 

From rise to set of sun. 
The little shipmates were until 

The long voyage was done. 
And when toward the West they sped 

Upon the hurrying train. 
Still did the father's tethering knots 

Bind little Dane to Dane. 




*' Now, wife, if half of them get wild 

And heedless in their play. 
He said, " the other half are sure 

To pull the other way. 
The strong legs will go slow to suit 

The toddlers' stumbling knees. 
And they will make the good old ship 

Hum like a swarm of bees. 



Green be the fields that may be theirs, 

And kindly bend their skies, 
Nor cloud of want, nor homesick tear 

Ever bedim their eyes ! 
Well for them if true Love but binds, 

As did that bit of string, 
Brother and sister as one heart 

In all Life's journeying ! 



GRANDMOTHER'S CAP. 




WHAT has become of grandmother's cap 
She spread with care on the grass one night, 
Close by the blossoming lilac-bush, 

To bleach in the dews and moon-beams white ? 

Has human malice or elfin guile 

Plundered the gossamer web in play ? 

Or thoughtless winds from the east or west 
Wafted it far from her sight away ? 

No answer comes to her faithful search, 

From the earth-fields green or the sky-fields blue, 

And what has become of her finest cap 

Is grandmother's wonder the summer through. 



The robins could tell ; Dame Redbreast knows; 

For at early dawn, one morning in May, 
Seeking her building-stores, she came 

Where the bleaching lace in the dew-drops lay, 

She seized it, and flew with her helpful mate 
To the half-made nest on the apple-tree. 

Where they deftly wove it with twigs and straws, 
Chatting and singing in frolicsome glee. 

But when the lilac, lily and rose 

Had bloomed and faded in retinue sweet, 

When summer birdlings were fledged and flown, 
And autumn winds round the hill-tops beat, 

From the leafless boughs of a gnarled old tree 
A nest was hanging in ruins forlorn ; 

While a fluttering fragment of lace revealed 
Grandmother's head-dress spoiled and torn 




THE dews lay chill upon the banks of Urr in 
Galloway ; 
The shepherd and his sons were out at earliest 

peep of day ; 
And on the cottage fire the gude-wife stirred the 

butter-brose, 
Though scarce had dawn along the east tinted the 
sky with rose. 

Close by upon the river's bank she heard a clash 

and clang ; 
Ah ! well she knew the deadly sound, and to her 

doorway sprang; 
There two armed knights in furious strife made 

desperate thrust and pass, 
While near two stalwart warriors lay lifeless on 

the grass. 



m 




% 



tVJll^i 



(It was the time when Robert Bruce, though Scot- 
land's crowned lord. 

Was driven his own realm about by Edward's en- 
vious sword — 

Five centuries and more ago — and oft the dreary 
heath 

Saw lonely battles, hand to hand, end in some 
lonely death.) 



OKZr A YEAH. 




** One Year Ago,'* 



Only a jear ! — no voice, no smile, 

No glance of eye, 
No clustering curls of golden hair, 

Fair, but to die ! 

One year ago — what loves, what schemes 

Far into life ! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves, 

What generous strife ! 

The silent picture on the wall, 

The burial-stone. 
Of all that beauty, life, and joy, 

Remain alone ! 

One year — one year — one little year^ 

And so much gone ! 
And yet that even flow of life 

Moves calmly on. 

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom 
fair. 

Above that head ; 
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray 

Says he is dead. 




OUR FATHER IN HEAVEN. 



MTBOY. 



215 



No pause or hush of merry birds 

That sing above, 
Tells us how coldly sleeps below 

The form we love. 

Where hast thou been this year, beloved ? 

What hast thou seen ? 
What visions fair — what glorious life 

Where thou hast been ? 

The veil ! the veil ! so thin, so strong ! 

'Twixt us and thee ; 
That mystic veil ! when shall it fall, 

That we may see ? 

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone — 

"Bvit present still, 
And waiting for the coming hour 

Of God's sweet will. 

Lord of the living and the dead, 

Our Saviour dear ! 
We lay in silence at Thy feet 

This sad, sad year ! 

Harriet B. Stowe. 



MY BOY. 

I cannot make him dead ! 

His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 

Yet when my eyes now dim 

With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes, — he is not there ! 

I walk my parlor floor. 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair! 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 

I thread the crowded street ; 
A satchelled lad I meet. 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair ; 



And, as he's running by. 
Follow him with my eye. 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Closed are his eyes: cold is his forehead fair; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there 1 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed. 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly. 
Before the thought comes that — he is not 
there ! 

When at the cool gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake. 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy. 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not 
there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer ; 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though — he is not there! 

Not there ! Where, then, is he? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress. 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; he is not there ! 

He lives ! In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there/" 



2l6 



FOR THE YOUNGEST.. 



Yes, we all live to God ! 
Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 
That, in the spirit land, 
Meeting at Thy right hand, 
'Twill be our heaven to find that — he i 
there 1 

John Pierpont. 



FOR THE YOUNGEST. 

Gentle Jesus,, meek and mild, 
Look upon a little child ; 
Pity my simplicity, 
Suffer me to come to thee. 

Fain I would to thee be brought ; 
Dearest God, forbid it not : 
Give me, dearest God, a place 
In the kingdom of thy grace. 

Put thy hands upon my head, 
Let me in thine arms be stayed ; 
Let me lean upon thy breast. 
Lull me, lull me, Lord, to rest. 

Hold me fast in thy embrace, '' 
Let me see thy smiling face. 
Give me, Lord, thy blessing give ; 
Pray for me, and I shall live. 

I shall live the simple life. 
Free from sin's uneasy strife, 
Sweetly ignorant of ill, 
Innocent and happy still. 

Oh that I ma}'' never know 
What the wicked people do ! 
Sin is contrary to thee, 
Sin is the forbidden tree. 

Keep me from the great offence, 
Guard my helpless innocence ; 
Hide me, from all evil hide, 
Self and stubbornness and pride. 



Lamb of God, I look to thee ; 
Thou shalt my Example be ; 
Thou art gentle, meek, and mild. 
Thou wast once a little child. 

Fain I would be as thou art ; 
Give me thy obedient heart. 
Thou art pitiful and kind ; 
Let me have thy loving mind. 

Meek and lowly may I be ; 
Thou art all humility. 
Let me to my betters bow ; 
Subject to thy parents thou. 

Let me above all fulfil 
God my heavenly Father's will; 
Never his good Spirit grieve, 
Only to his glory live. 

Thou didst live to God alone. 
Thou didst never seek thine own; 
Thou thyself didst never please, 
God was all thy happiness. 

Loving Jesu, gentle Lamb, 
In thy gracious hands I am. 
Make me. Saviour, what thou art, 
Live thyself within my heart. 

I shall then show forth thy praise, 
Serve thee all my happy days : 
Then the world shall always see 
Christ, the holy child, in me. 

Charles Wesley. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

A wayward son ofttimes I was to thee ; 
And yet in all our little bickerings. 
Domestic jars, there was, I know not what 
Of tender feelings that were ill exchanged 
For this world's chilling friendships, and their 

smiles 
Familiar whom the heart calls strangers still. 
A heavy lot hath he, most wretched man, 



A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 



217 



Who lives the last of all his family ; 

He looks around him, and his eye discerns 

The face of the stranger, and his heart is 

sick. 
Man of the world, what canst thou do for 

him? 
Wealth is a burden, which he could not bear ; 
Mirth a strange crime, the which he dare not 

act; 
And generous wines no cordial to his soul : 
For wounds like his Christ is the only cure. 
Go, preach thou to him of a world to come. 
Where friends shall meet and know each 

other's face ; 
Say less than this, and say it to the winds. 
Charles Lame. 



You do not believe it.' Ask Susie, my sis- 
ter, 
She's the very first person that ever had kissed 

her. 
And if she'd not nursed her by night and by 

day, 
Poor Sue . would have been in a very bad 

way. 
I can bring other witnesses whom you 

may face. 
They will tell you the same — they were in 

the same case. 
" Has she lovers ? " Yes, surely ! No less 

than eleven ! 
She has seven on earth, and four more up in 

heaven. 




" A Wayward Son Ofttimes I was to Thee. 



A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 

In a little white house on a.niiiside green, 
Lives a beautiful woman as ever was seen ; 
In the sixty-five years that she's lived, I may 

say, 
She's been growing more beautiful every day. 



Her nair is so beautiful — faded and thin. 
There are beautiful wrinkles, from forehead 

to chin. 
Her eyes are as charmmg as charming can 

be. 
When she looks o'er her glasses so fondly at 

me. 



2l8 



MT MOTHER'S BIBLE. 



And I know by her life, which has beautiful 
been, 

She is like " the king's daughter " — " all glo- 
rious within." 

Ah, you've guessed who it is ! It could be no 
other, 

I'm sure, than my beautiful, darling old 
mother. 



MOTHER'S BIRTHDAY. 

Oft in the after-days, when thou and I 

Have fallen from the scope of human view, 
When, both together, under the sweet sky 

We sleep between the daisies and the dew. 
Men will recall thy gracious presence bland. 
Conning the pictured sweetness of thy 
face; 
Will pore o'er paintings by thy plastic hand. 
And vaunt thy skill, and tell thy deeds of 
grace ; 
Oh, may they then, who crown thee with true 
bays. 
Saying "What love unto her son she bore ! " 
Make this addition to thy perfect praise, 
" Nor ever yet was mother worsliipt 
more ! " 
So shall I live with thee, and thy dear fame 
Shall link my love unto thine honored name. 
J0LIET Fane. 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 

This book is all that's left me now, — 

Tears will unbidden start, — 
With faltering lip and throbbing brow 

I press it to my heart. 
For many generations past 

Here is our familj' tree ; 
My mother's hands this Bible clasped, 

She, dying, gave it me. 

Ah ! well do I remember those 
Whose names these records bear ; 

Who round the hearthstone used to close, 
After the evening prayer, 



And speak of what these pages said 
In tones my heart would thrill ! 

Though they are with the silent dead. 
Here are they living still ! 

My father read this holy book 

To brothers, sisters, dear ; 
How calm was my poor mother's look. 

Who loved God's word to hear ! 
Her angel face, — I see it yet ! 

What thronging memories come ! 
Again that little group is met 

Within the halls of home ! 

Thou truest friend man ever knew, 

Thy constancy I've tried ; 
When all were false, I found thee true. 

My counsellor and guide. 
The mines of earth no treasures give 

That could this volume buy ; 
In teaching me the way to live 

It taught me how to die ! 

George P. Morris. 




JOHN ANDERSON. 

John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was bent ; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 

Your locks are like the snow ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson, my jo ! 



John Anderson, my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We 've had wi' ane anither ; 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we '11 go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson, my jo ! 

Robert Burns. 



HOMES. 



How beautiful a world were 
ours. 
But for the pale and 
shadowy One 
That treadeth on its pleas- 
ant flowers 
And stalketh in its sun ! 
Glad childhood needs the 
lore of time 
To show the phantom 
overhead ; 
But where the breast, before 
its prime 
That beareth not its 
dead — 
The moon that looketh on 

whose home 
In all its circuit, sees no 
tomb ? 

It was an ancient tyrant's 
thought 
To link the living with 
the dead ; 
Some secret of his soul had 
taught 
That lesson dark and 
dread. 
And, oh ! we bear about us 
still 
The dreary moral of his 
art — 
Some form that lieth pale 
and chill 
Upon each living heart. 



'S. 219 

Tied to the memory, till a wave 
Shall lay them in one common grave ! 

To boyhood, hope — to manhood, fears ! 

Alas ! alas ! that each bright home 
Should be a nursing-place of tears, 

A cradle for the tomb ! 
If childhood seeth all things loved, 

Where home's unshadowy shadows waive. 
The old man's treasure hath removed — 

He looketh to the grave ! 
For grave and home lie sadly blent 
Wherever spreads yon firmament. 




THE THBEE FISHEES. 



A few short years, and then the boy 

Shall miss, beside the household hearth. 
Some treasure from his store of joy. 

To find it not on earth. 
A shade within its saddened walls 

Shall sit, in some beloved's room. 
And one dear name he vainly calls. 

Be written on a tomb ; — 
And he have learnt, from all beneath, 
His first sad, bitter taste of death ! 

And years glide on till manhood's come; — 

And where the young, glad faces were, 
Perchance the once bright, happy home 

Hath many a vacant chair. 
A darkness from the church-yard shed 

Hath fallen on each familiar room, 
And much of all home's light hath fled 

To moulder in the tomb ! 
And household gifts that memory saves, 
But help to count the household graves. 



Then homes and graves the heart divide, 

As they divide the outer world ; 
But drearier days must yet betide. 

Ere sorrow's wings be furled ; 
When more within the church-yard lie 

Than sit and sadly smile at home. 
Till home, unto the old man's eye 

Itself appears a tomb — 
And his tired spirit asks the grave 
For all the home he longs to have ! 

It shall be so ! it shall be so ! — 

Go, bravely trusting — trusting on. 
Bear up a few short years, and lo ! 

The grave and home are one ! — 
And then, the bright ones gone before 

Within another, happier home. 
Are waiting — fonder than before, 

Until the loved ones come. 
A home, where but the life-trees wave ! 
Like childhood's — That home hath no grave! 
Thomas K. Hervey. 







\ ^«aUf>S . ^si:^ \ ^i t < rii«.<^ 



THE THREE FISHERS. 



Three fishers went sailing out into the west — 
Out into the west as the sun went down — 
Each thought of the woman who loved him 
the best. 
And the children stood watching them out 
of the town, 
For men must work, and women must weep ; 
And there 's little to earn, and many to 
keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 



Three wives sat up in the light-house tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
down ; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked 
at the shower. 
And the rack it came, rolling up, ragged 
and brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep. 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 



THE TBBEE FISHEBS. 



Three corpses lay out on the shining sands, 
In the morning gleam, as the tide went 
down, 
And the women are weeping and wringing 
their hands, 
For those who never will come back to the 
town ; 
For men must work, and women must weep — 
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 
Charles Kingsley. 




TBE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 




That moss-covered vessel I hall as a 

treasure ; 
For often, at noon, when returned 

from the field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite 

pleasure. 
The purest and sweetest that Nature 

can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands 

that were glowing ! 
And quick to the white-pebbled 

bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth 

overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose 

from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from 

the well ! 



THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my 

childhood. 
When fond recollection presents «^" 

them to view ! fc 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep- :• 

tangled wild-wood, I': 

And every loved spot which my [ 

infancy knew ; , ,1, 

The wide-spreading pond, and the :' 

mill which stood by it, 1 

The bridge, and the rock where 

the cataract fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house 

nigh it, 
And e'en the rude bucket which 

hung in the well ! 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 

bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket, which 

hung in the well ! 



How sweet from the green moss/ 
^^ brim to receive it, 

' „ As poised on the curb it inclined 

to my lips ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 
Tho' filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 




And e'en the rudb Bucket which hung in the Well.'' 



GREA T-GRANDMO THER' S SPINNING- WHEEL. 



223 




" Her Mother, who sits in the tidy Room.' 



GREAT-GRANDMOTHER'S SPINNING-WHEEL. 



Out of the garret, 
Odd little thing, we bear it : 
Out of the dusty, moldy gloom, 
Into the sunlight-flooded room. 
Dust is over it heavy and gray, 

Thick on the treadle, thick on the wheel, 



And spiders have spun on it day by 
day. 
To mock at its old-time, busy zeal. 

Smiling we linger, 
Pointing with curious finger 



224 



THE HE ART'S HOME 



As this or that quaint shape we see 
In this last-century mystery. 

But grandmother's face grows grave and 
pale, 
Our jests are idle, our wonder lost, 
This little wheel lifts up the veil 

To her from the land of grave and 
ghost. 



Younger and stronger, 
White-haired and weak no longer, 
She sees, wide open, the cottage door. 
The ceiling low, and the sanded floor ; 
The roses that climb outside, with bloom 

Half of the window space conceal ; 
And her mother, who sits in the tidy 
room. 
Is spinning fiax at this little wheel ! 



She hears the whirring. 
Soft as a kitten purring. 
And under and over the busy noise 
The tender song of her mother's voice. 
Her childhood's ways she walks again. 
Her childhood's heart she bears once 

more ; 
Drops from her like a leaf, the pain 
And burden of almost fourscore I 



But for a minute ! 
Then, with a tremor in it 
Of age and grief, her voice speaks low : 
" She died just fifty years ago ! " 
Now no longer with spirits gay, 

The novel and crude alone we see, 
But wiping the gathered dust away. 
Our tears fall on it reverently. 



We think how tender, 
With love and self-surrender. 
Those busy hands their labor wrought 
Upon it in time to loving thought, — 



Hopeful and eager long ago — 

While now in their folded peace they 
lie, 
Heedless that the toil goes on, below 

The dust of half a century 1 



Ah, if that spirit 
Could hover once more near it, 
Could out of the dead past come again, 
Warm and living as it was then. 
In the cosy household corner here. 

Where stands the little old-fashioned 
thing. 
How the children's children gathered near. 
Would give it heartful welcoming ! 

Clara Dory Bates. 



THE HEART'S HOME. 

Hark ! hark ! my soul ! angelic songs are 
swelling 
O'er earth's green fields and ocean's wave- 
beat shore. 
How sweet the truth those blessed strains are 
telling 
Of that new life, when sin shall be no 
more. 



Darker than night life's shadows fall around 
us. 
And like benighted men we miss our 
mark; 
God hides himself, and grace has scarcely 
found us. 
Ere death finds out his victims in the 
dark. 



Onward we go, for still we hear them singing, 
" Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you 
come ; " 
And through the dark, its echoes sweetly 
ringing, 
The music of the gospel leads us home. 




A CLOUD WITH A SILVER LINING. 



IF WE KKEW. 



izf 



Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing, 
The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and 
sea, 
And laden souls by thousands meekly stealing, 
Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to 
thee. 



Rest comes at length, though life be long and 
dreary, 
The day must dawn, and darksome night 
be past ; 
All journeys end in welcome to the weary. 
And heaven, the heart's true home, will 
come at last. 



Cheer up ! my soul, faith's moonbeams softly 
glisten 
Upon the breast of life's most troubled 
sea; 
And it will cheer thy drooping heart to listen 
To those brave songs which angels mean 
for thee. 



Angels ! sing on, your faithful watches keep- 
ing; 
Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above ; 
While we toil on, and sooth ourselves with 
weeping. 
Till life's long night shall break in endless 
love. 

Frederick W. Faber. 



IF WE KNEW. 

If we knew the woe and heartache 

Waiting for us down the road,. 
If our lips could taste the wormwood, 

If our backs could feel the load ; 
Would we waste to-day in wishing 

For a time that ne'er can be ; 
Would we wait in such impatience 

For our ships to come from sea? 



If we knew the baby fingers 

Pressed against the window-pane. 

Would be cold and stiff to-morrow — 
^ Never trouble us again ; 

Would the bright eyes of our darling 
Catch the frown upon our brow ? 

Would the prints of rosy fingers 
Vex us as they do now .'' 



Ah, these little ice-cold fingers. 

How they point our memories back 
To the hasty words and actions 

Strewn along our backward track ! 
How those little hands remind us. 

As in snowy grace they lie, 
Not to scatter thorns — but roses — 

For our reaping by and by ! 



Strange we never prize the music 

Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown ; 
Strange that we should slight the violets 

Till the lovely flowers are gone ; 
Strange that summer skies and sunshine 

Never seem one-half so fair 
As when winter's snowy pinions 

Shake their white down in the air ! 



Lips from which the seal of silence 

None but God can roll away, 
Never blossomed in such beauty 

As adorns the mouth to-day ; 
And sweet words that freight our memorjr 

With their beautiful perfume. 
Come to us in sweeter accents 

Through the portals of the tomb. 



Let us gather up the sunbeams 

Lying all along our path ; 
Let us keep the wheat and roses. 

Casting out the thorns and chaff ; 
Let us find our sweetest comfort 

In the blessings of to-day ; 
With a patient hand removing 

All the briers from our way. 



2a8 



thai^ksgiving. 

I II i" ^ (.1 i\(; 



ep 
ay; 
1 5 whelm- 




" Thanksgiving and the Voicb of Melody." 



THANKSGIVING. 



^3' 



The past is not so dark as once it seemed, 

For there thy footsteps, now distinct, I see ; 
And seed in weakness sown, from death re- 
deemed. 
Is springing up, and bearing fruit in thee. 
Not all that hath been. Lord, henceforth shall 
be — 
A low, sweet, cheering strain is in mine 
ear. 
Thanksgiving and the voice of melody 

Are leading in from heaven a blest New 
Year. 

With voice subdued my listening spirit sings, 

As backward on the trodden path I gaze, 
While ministering angels fold their wings 
To fill with lowly thoughts 
my song of praise. 
The shadow of the past on fu- 
ture days 
Will make them clear to 
my instructed sight : 
For the heart's knowledge of 
thy sacred ways. 
Even in its deepest, darkest 
shades, is light. 

I am not stronger, — yet I do 
not fear 
The present pain, the con- 
flict yet to be : 
Experience is a kind voice in 
my ear, 
And all my failures bid me 
lean on thee. 
No future suffering can seem 
strange to me. 
While in the hidden past I 
feel and know 
The wisdom of a child at rest 
and free 
In the tried love whose judg- 
ment keeps him low. 

Thanksgiving and the voice 
of melody ! 
Oh, to my tranquil heart, how 
sweet the strain ! 



Father of mercies ! it arose in thee. 
And to thy bosom it returns again. 

There let my grateful song, my soul remain. 
Calm in the risen Saviour's tender care ; 

And welcome any trial, any pain. 

That serves to keep thy faithful children 
there. 

Thoughts of Thy love — and oh, how great 
the sum ! 
Enduring grief, obtaining bliss, for me ; 
The world, life, death, things present, things 
to come. 
All swell the New Year's opening mel- 
ody. 




■27,2 



LINES LEFT AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE. 



Past, present, future, all things worship thee ; 
And I, through all, with trembling joy be- 
hold. 
While mountains fall, and treacherous visions 
flee. 
Thy wandering sheep returning to the fold. 
Anna Letitia Waring. ' 

LINES LEFT AT A FRIEND'S HOUSE. 

O Thou dread Power, who reign'st above, 

I Idiow thou wilt me hear. 
When for this scene of peace and love 

I make my prayer sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 

Long, long, be pleased to spare 
To bless his little filial flock, 

And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears. 
Oh, bless her with a mother's joys, 

But spare a mother's tears ! 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush, — 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 

Up to a parent's wish ! 

The beauteous seraph sister-band. 

With earnest tears I pray, — 
Thou knowest the snares on every hand, 

Guide thou their steps alway ! 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driven. 
May they rejoice, no wanderer lost, 

A family in heaven ! 

Robert Burns. 

TAKE THY OLD CLOAK ABOUT 
THEE. 

This winter's weather itt waxeth cold. 
And frost doth freeze on every hill, 

And Boreas blowes his blasts soe bold. 
That all our cattell are like to spill ; 



Bell, my wiffe, who loves noe strife, 

Shee sayd unto me, quietlye, 
" Rise up, and save cow Cumbocke's liffe, 

Man, put thine old cloake about thee." 

He. 

O, Bell, why dost thou flyte and scorne? 

Thou kenst my cloake is very thin: 
Itt is soe bare and overworne 

A cricke he thereon cannot run ; 
When I'll no longer borrowe nor lend, 

For once I'll new appareld bee. 
To-morrow I'll to town and spend. 

For I'll have a new cloake about mee. 

She. 

Cow Cumbocke is a very good cow, 

Shee ha beene alwayes true to the payle, 
Shee has helpt us to butter and cheese I 
trow. 

And other things shee will not fayle ; 
I wold be loth to see her pine. 

Good husband, councell take of mee, 
Itt is not for us to go soe fine, 

Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 

He. 

My cloake it was a very good cloake, 

Itt hath beene alwayes true to the weare, 
But now it is not worth a groat ; 

I have had it four-and-forty yeere ; 
Some time itt was of cloth in grain, 

'Tis now but a sigh clout, as you may see, 
It will neither hold winde nor raine; 

And I '11 have a new cloake about me. 

She. 

It is four-and-fortye yeeres agoe 

Since the one of us the other did ken, 
And we have had, betwi.xt us twoe. 

Of children either nine or ten ; 
Wee have brought them up to women and 
men ; 

In the feare of God I trow they bee ; 
And why wilt thou thyselfe misken ? 

Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 



SATUliDAV AFTEBNOOK. 



23s 



He. 



O, Bell, my wiffe, why dost thou floute ? 

Now is nowe and then was then : 
Seeke now all the world throughout ; 

Thou kenst not clownes from gentlemen. 
They are clad in blacke, greene, yellow or 

gray. 
See far above their owne degree, 
Once in my life I'll doe as they, 

For I'll have a new cloake about mee. 

She. 

King Stephen was a worthy peere. 
His breeches cost him but a crown ; 

He held them sixpence all too deere ; 
Therefore he called the ta}lor lowne. 



And oft, to live a quiet life, 

I am forced to yield, though I'me good 
man ; 
Itt's not for a man with a woman to threape. 

Unless he first gave o'er the plea : 
As wee began wee now will leave, 

And I'll take mine old cloake about me. 
Author Unknown. 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 

I love to look on a scene like this. 

Of wild and careless play, 
And persuade myself that I am not old, 

\nd my locks are not yet gray • 




He was a wight of high rencrwne. 
And thouse but of a low degree ; 

Itt's pride that putts this countrye downe, 
Man, take thine old cloake about thee. 

He. 

Bell, my wife, she loves not strife. 
Yet she will lead me if she can ; 



For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, 

And makes his pulses fly, 
To catch the thrill of a happy voice, 

And the light of a pleasant eye. 

I have walked the world for fourscore years, 

And they say that I am old ; 
That my heart is ripe for the reaper Death, 



SATURDAY AFTERNOON. 




And my years are well-nigh told. 
It is very true ; it is very true ; 

I'm old, and I " bide my time ; " 
But my heart will leap at a scene like 
this 

And I half renew my prime. 



Play on ! play on ! I am with you there, 
In the midst of your merry ring ; 

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump, 
And the rush of the breathless swing. 

I hide with you in the fragrant hay, 
And I whoop the smothered call, 



r ARSON KELLY. 



^35 



And my feet slip up on the seedy floor, 
And I care not for the fall. 

I am willing to die when my time shall come, 

And I shall be glad to go — 
For the world, at best is a weary place. 

And my pulse is getting low ; 
But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail 

In treading its gloomy way ; 
And it wiles my heart from its dreariness 

To see the young so gay. 

Nathaniel Parker Willis. 



PARSON KELLY. 

Old Parson Kelly's fair young wife, Irene 

Died when but three months wed. 
And no new love has ever come between 

His true heart and the dead. 
Though now for sixty years the grass has 

grown 
Upon her grave, and on its simple stone 

The moss 

And yellow lichens creep her name across. 

Outside the door, in the warm summer air, 

The old man sits for hours. 
The idle wind, that stirs his silver hair, 

Is sweet with June's first flowers ; 
But dull his mind, and clouded with the haze 
Of life's last weary, gray November days ; 

And dim 

The past and present look alike to him. 
The sunny scene around, confused and blurred. 

The twitter of the birds, 
Blend in his mind with voices long since 
heard — 

Glad childhood's careless words, 
Old hymns and Scripture texts ; while indis- 
tinct 
Yet strong, one thought with all fair things is 
linked — 

The bride 

Of his lost youth is ever by his side. 

By its sweet weight of snowy blossoms bowed, 
The rose-tree branch hangs low. 



And in the sunshine, like a fleecy cloud. 

Sways slowly to and fro. 
" Oh, is it you ? " the old man asks ; " Irene !" 
And smiles, and fancies that her face he's 
seen 

Beneath 

The opening roses of a bridal wreath ! 

Down from the gambrel roof a white dove flits. 

The sunshine on its wings, 
And lighting close to where the dreamer sits, 

A vision with it brings — 
A golden gleam from some long vanished day, 
" Dear love," he calls ; then, " Why will you 
not stay ? " 
He sighs, 

For, at his voice, the bird looks up and flies ! 
Oh, constant heart ! whose failing thoughts 
cling fast 
To one long laid in dust. 
Still seeing, turned to thine, as in the past, 

Her look of perfect trust. 
Her soft voice hearing in the south wind's 

breath. 
Dream on ! Love pure as thine shall outlive 
death, 
And when 

The gates unfold, her eyes meet thine 
again ! 

Annie Douglass Green, 

COME HOME! 

Come home with me, beloved, — 

Home to the heart of God ! 
In lonely, separate by-ways 

We long enough have trod. 
Away from rest and shelter 

Why should we further press ? 
The end of our self-seeking 

Is only homelessness. 

Come home with me, beloved ! 

God's children have but one; 
Its windows glow and glisten, 

Lit from beyond the sun ; 
Its golden hearth fires beckon 

To all, and aye to each 



256 



THE AULD MAN TO HIS WIFE. 



In deserts deep entangled, 
Where but His eye can reach, 

Com£ home with me, beloved ! 

These earthly homes of ours 
Lift up their dull clay turrets 

To hide heaven's pearly towers ; 
We stay shut in distrustful, 

Behind our threshold line ; 
But He, with boundless welcome, 

Flings wide His gates divine. 

Come home with me, beloved 1 

The dearest of the dear 
Is never comprehended 

Or rightly measured here ; 
But we shall know each other 

At last, grown pure and wise, 
Reading Truth's radiant secret — 

With love's enlightened eyes. 

Come home with me, beloved ! 

Each in that house shall have 
His own peculiar chamber, 

Filled with the gifts he gave, — 
The mansion's Lord, our Father ; 

While, sons and princes there, 
Each royally with others 

His blessedness shall share. 

Come home with me, beloved, 

Home to God's waiting heart ! 
In gladness met together 

From paths too long apart. 
Strangers no more, but brethren, 

One life with him to live ; 
Eternally receiving. 

Eternally to give ! 

Lucv Larcom. 



THE AULD MAN TO HIS WIFE. 

Come closer to my side, good wife — 
The wedding revels all are done, 

And we have given our household pet 
Unto her choice, and they are gone ; 



We sit and listen here in vain 

For her sweet voice, her soft footfall r 

We two old people must again 
Be to each other all in all. 

What is there in this firelight glow 
That brings the dreams of other years 

Into our hearts, that makes us now 

Smile for those smiles — weep for those 
tears ? 

For here, in this dim firelight, 

I 've dreamed our early love to-night, 

When first, dear one — 'twas long ago, 
If we should count the time by years,^ 

Thy locks are sprinkled thick with snow. 
My head a crown of silver wears — 

When first I dreamt that thou might be 

Dearer than all the world to me. 

We stood — I see the very spot, 
In memory's pages, growing dim, 

I 've marked it with forget-me-not. 
The little wicket, quaint and trim. 

By which we stood in the half-light 

Of twilight stars, to say good-night. 

Round us the fields were black and brown. 

And o'er the tree-tops, chill and drear, 
The cold winds were drifting down — 

'Twas in the autumn of the year — 
All this we saw, yet did not see — 
Our world held only you and me. 

And then we said " Good-night," yet still 
My hands were clasping both of thine. 

And then we sought each other's eyes — 
Yours fell beneath the gaze of mine — 

And then my arm round thee was thrown ; 

My lips pressed kisses on thine own. 

Ah, well ! the years have taken wings 
Since first I stole thine heart away. 

And life has brought us what life brings 
To mortals always — work and play. 

Sorrow and laughter ; still to meet 

Them all with thee has made life sweet I 




SUMMER-TIME. 



COMING HOME. 




And when beyond the sunset hills 

We go together, you and I, 
And with its sorrows and its ills 

The life of earth hath passed us by, 
'Twill make the joy of heaven to me. 
To live the life of heaven with thee ! 

Maud Moore. 



COMING HOME. 

O brothers and sisters, growing old, 

Do you all remember yet 
That home, in the shade of the rustling 
trees. 

Where once our household met ? 

Do you know how we used to come from 
school, 

Through the summer's pleasant heat ; 
With the yellow fennel's golden dust 

On our tired little feet ? 

And how sometimes in an idle mood 
We loitered by the way ; 



And stopped in the woods to gather flowers- 
And in the fields to play ; 

Till warned by the deep'ning shadow's fallj,. 

That told of the coming night, 
We climbed to the top of the last long hill,. 

And saw our home in sight ! 

And, brothers and sisters, older now 

Than she whose life is o'er, 
Do you think of the mother's loving face, . 

That looked from the open door ? 

Alas, for the changing things of time ; 

That home in the dust is low ; 
And that loving smile was hid from us, 

In the darkness, long ago ! 

And we have come to life's last hill, 

From wliich our weary eye 
Can almost look on the home that shines-- 

Eternal in the skies. 

So brothers and sisters as we go, 
Still let us move as one. 



340 



ouB owisr. 



Always together keeping step, 
Till the march of life is done. 

Tor that mother who waited for us here, 

Wearing a smile so sweet. 
Now waits on the hills of paradise 

For her children's coming feet ! 

Phcebe Gary. 



OUR OWN. 

Tf I had known, in the morning, 

How wearily all the day 
The words unkind would trouble my mind 

That I said when you went away, 
I had been more careful, darling. 

Nor given you needless pain ; 
But — we vex our own with look and tone 

We might never take back again. 



For though in the quiet evening 

You may give me the kiss of peace, 
Yet it well might be that never for me 

The pain of the heart should cease ! 
How many go forth at morning 

Who never come home at night. 
And hearts have broken for harsh words 
spoken 

That sorrow can ne'er set right. 

We have careful thought for the stranger, 

And smiles' for the sometime guest. 
But oft for our own the bitter tone. 

Though we love our own the best. 
Ah, lip with the curve impatient, 

Ah, brow with the shade of scorn, 
'Twere a cruel fate were the night too late 

To undo the work of morn. 

Author Unknown. 




Who Watched for us There ' 




READY SYMPATHY. 



MY AIN COUNTREE. 



H3 



MY AIN COUNTREE. 

I'm far frae my hame, an' I'm weary aften- 

whiles, 
For the langed-for hame-bringing, an' my 

Father's welcome smiles ; 
I'll ne'er be fu' content, until mine een do see 
The shining gates o' heaven, an' my ain coun- 

tree. 

The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony-tinted, 

fresh and gay. 
The birdies warble blithely, for my Father 

made them sae ; 
But these sights an' these soun's will as nae- 

thing be to me, 
When I hear the angels singing in my ain 

countree. 

I've his gude word of promise that some glad- 
some day, the King 

To his ain royal palace his banished hame will 
bring : 

Wi' een an' wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall 
see 

The King in his beauty in our ain countree. 

My sins hae been mony, an' my sorrows hae 
been sair, 

IBut there they'll never vex me, nor be remem- 
bered mair ; 

His bluid has made me white, his hand shall 
dry mine e'e, 

When he brings me hame at last, to my ain 
countree. 

Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its 

nest, 
I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's 

breast ; 
For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless 

lambs like me, 
And carries them himsel' to his ain countree. 

He's faithfu' that hath promised, he'll surely 

come again, 
He'll keep his tr}'st wi' me, at what hour I 

dinna ken ; 



But he bids me still to wait, an' ready aye to 

be, 
To gang at ony moment to my ain countree. 

So I'm watching aye, an' singin' o' my hame 

as I wait. 
For the soun'ing o' his footfa' this side the 

shining gate ; 
God gie his grace to ilk ane wha listens noo 

to me. 
That we a' may gang in gladness to our aia 

countree. 

Mary Lee Demarest. 

SWEET AUBURN. 

Sweet Auburn ! parent of the blissful hour. 
Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds. 
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds,' 
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorne 

grew. 
Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train. 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 

pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of 

care. 
In all my griefs — and God has given my 

share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown. 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close. 
And keep the flame from wasting by repose : 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still. 
Amidst the swains to show my b'lok-learn'd 

skill. 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pur- 
sue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first she 

flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

Oliver Goldsmitii 



244 HOME AND HEAVEN. 

HOME AND HEAVEN. 



With the same letter, heaven and home be- 
gin, 
And the words dwell together in the 

mind ; 
For they who would a home in heaven win, 

Must first a heaven in home begin to find. 
Be happy here, yet with an humble soul 

That looks for perfect happiness in heave- i 
For what thou hast is earnest of the whole 

Which to the faithful shall at last be given. 
As once the patriarch, in a vision blessed, 

Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro. 
And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest 

Became to him the gate of heaven below ; 
So may to thee, when life itself is done. 

Thy home on earth and heaven above be 
one. 

Jones Very. 



A PICTURE. 

The farmer sat in his easy chair 

Smoking his pipe of clay, 
While his hale old wife, with busy care, 
Was clearing the dinner away ; 
A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, 
On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. 



The old man laid his hand on her head, 

With a tear on his wrinkled face ; 
He thought how often her mother, dead, 
Had sat in the self-same place. 
As a tear stole down from his half-shut eye, 
" Don't smoke ! " said the child ; " how it 
makes you cry ! " 



The house-dog lay stretch'd out on the 
floor, 
Where the shade after noon used to steal ; 
The busy old wife, by the open door. 
Was turning the spinning wheel ; 
And the old brass clock on the mantletree 
Had plodded along to almost three. 



Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, 
While close to his heaving breast 
The moistened brow and the cheek so fair 
Of his sweet grandchild were press'd ; 
His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : 
Fast asleep were they both, that summer day t 
Charles Gamage Eastman. 



THE QUAKER WIDOW. 

Thee finds me in the garden, Hannah, — come 

in ! 'tis kind of thee 
To wait until the friends were gone, who came- 

to comfort me. 
The still and quiet company a peace may give, 

indeed, 
But blessed is the single heart that comes to 

us at need. 

Come, sit thee down ! Here is the bench 

where Benjamin would sit 
On First-day afternoons in spring, and watcli 

the swallows flit : 
He loved to smell the sprouting box, and hear 

the pleasant bees 
Go humming round the lilacs and through the 

apple-trees. 

I think he loved the spring : not that he cared 
for flowers : most men 

Think such things foolishness, — but we were 
first acquainted then, 

One spring : the next he spoke his mind ; the 
third I was his wife. 

And in the spring (it happened so) our chil- 
dren entered life. 

He was but seventy-five : I did not think to 

lay him yet 
In Kennett Graveyard, where at monthly 

meeting first we met. 
The Father's mercy shows in this : 't is better 

I should be 
Picked out to bear the heavy cross — alone in 

age — than he. 



THE QUAKER WIDOW. 



HS 



We've lived together fifty years : it seems but 

one long day, 
One quiet sabbath of the heart, till he was 

called away ; 
And as we bring from meeting-time a sweet 

contentment home, 
•So, Hannah, I have store of peace for all the 

days to come. 



I mind (for I can tell thee now) how hard it 

was to know 
If I had heard the spirit right, that told me I 

should go ; 
For father had a deep concern upon his mind 

that day, 
iut mother spoke for Benjamin, — she knew 

what best to say. 



Then she was still : they sat awhile ; at last 
she spoke again, 

"" The Lord incline thee to the right ! " and 
" Thou shalt have him, Jane ! " 

My father said. I cried. Indeed, 'twas not 
the least of shocks. 

For Benjamin was Hicksite, and father Ortho- 
dox. 



I thought of this ten years ago, when daughter 

Ruth we lost : 
Her husband's of the world, and yet I could 

not see her crossed. 
■She wears, thee knows, the gayest gowns, she 

hears a hireling priest — 
Ah, dear ! the cross was ours ; her life's a 

happy one, at least. 



Perhaps she'll wear a plainer dress when she's 

as old as I, — 
Would thee believe it, Hannah } once I felt 

temptation nigh ! 
My wedding-gown was ashen silk, too simple 

for my taste : 
I wanted lace around the neck, and a ribbon 

at the waist. 



How strange it seemed to sit with him upon 

the women's side ! 
I did not dare to lift my eyes : I felt more 

fear than pride. 
Till, "in the presence of the Lord," he said, 

and then there came 
A holy strength upon my heart, and I could 

say the same. 



I used to blush when he came near, but then 

I showed no sign ; 
With all the meeting looking on, I held his 

hand in mine. 
It seemed my bashfulness was gone, now I 

was his for life : 
Thee knows the feeling, Hannah, — thee, too, 

hast been a wife. 



As home we rode, I saw no fields look half so 
green as ours; 

The woods were coming into leaf, the mead- 
ows full of flowers ; 

The neighbors met us in the lane, and every 
face was kind, — 

'Tis strange hov lively everything rqmes back 
upon my mind. 



I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding- 
dinner spread : 

At our own table we were guests, with father 
at the head, 

And Dinah Passmore helped us both, • — 'twas 
she stood up with me. 

And Abner Jones with Benjam'ii, — and now 
they're gone, all three ! 



It is not right to wish for death ; the Lord dis- 
poses best. 

His spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them 
for his rest ; 

And that he halved our little flock was merci- 
ful, I see : 

For Benjamin has two in heaven, and <wo are 
left with me. 



A BABE IN ITS HEAVENLY HOME. 



246 

Eusebius never cared to farm, — 'twas not his 

call, in truth. 
And I must rent the dear old place, and go to 

daughter Ruth. 
Thee '11 say her ways are not like mine, — 

young people nowadays 
Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the 

good old ways. 



But Ruth is still a Friend at heart ; she keeps 
the simple tongue, 

The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when 
she was young ; 

And it was brought upon my mind, remember- 
ing her, of late. 

That we on dress and outward things perhaps 
lay too much weight. 



I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed 

with grace. 
And pure almost as angels are, may have a 

homely face. 
And dress may be of less account ; the Lord 

will look within : 
The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or 

sin. 



Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's 

anxious I should go, 
And she will do her duty as a daughter should, 

I know. 
'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must 

be resigned : 
The Lord looks down contentedly upon a 

willing mind. 

Bayard Taylor. 



A BABE IN ITS HEAVENLY HOME. 

Sweet babe ! 

She glanced into our world to see 

A sample of our misery ; 
Then turned away her languid eye, 
To drop a tear or two — and die. 



Sweet babe ! 

She tasted of life's bitter cup, 
Refused to drink the portion up. 
But turned her little head aside, 
Disgusted with the taste — and died. 

Sweet babe ! 

She listened for a while to hear 

Our mortal griefs ; then turned her ear 

To angel harps and songs, and cried 

To join their notes celestial — sighed and died. 

Sweet babe no more, but seraph now ; 
Before the throne behold her bow; 
To heavenly joys her spirit flies. 
Blest in the triumph of the skies ; 

Adores the grace that brought her there. 
Without a wish, without a care, 
That washed her soul in Calvary's stream, 
That shortened life's distressing dream. 

Short pain, short grief, dear babe, were thine j 
Now joys eternal and divine; 
Yes, thou art fled, and saints a welcome sing ; 
Thine infant spirit soars on angel-wing ; 
Our dark affection might have hoped thy stay. 
The voice of God has called his child away. 
Like Samuel, early in the temple found, 
Sweet rose of Sharon, plant of holy ground, 
Oh ! more than Samuel blest, to thee is given. 
The God he served on earth, to serve in 
heaven ! 

Allan Cunningham. 

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD 

They grew in beauty, side by side ; 

They filled one home with glee ; 
Their graves are severed far and wide. 

By mount, and stream, and sea. 

The same fond mother bent at night 
O'er each fair sleeping brow ; 

She had each folded flower in sigh*:: 
Where are those dreamers now ? 




.? ' ^ 1 



r4 fl\ ' '\ ' 



I ,, "f 



L 






^ts-; 




TUE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 



249 



One midst the forests of the West, 
By a dark stream is laid, — 

The Indian knows his place of rest. 
Far in the cedar shade. 




" He was the Loved op all ** 

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one ; 

He lies where pearls lie deep ; 
Jle was the loved of all, yet none 

O'er his low bed may weep. 

One sleeps where southern vines are 
dressed 

Above the noble slain ; 
He wrapped his colors round his breast, 

On the blood-red field of Spain. 

And one, — o'er her the myrtle showers 
Its leaves by soft winds fanned ; 



She faded midst Italian flowers — 
The last of that bright band. 

And parted thus, they rest who played 
Beneath the same green tree ; 
Whose voices mingled as they prayed 
Around one parent knee ! 

They that with smiles lit up the hall. 
And cheered with song the 
hearth, — 
Alas for love ! if thou wert all, 
And naught beyond, O earth! 

Felicia Hemans. 



EARTH AND HEAVEN. 

And has the earth lost its so spacious 
round. 
The sky its blue circumference 
above. 
That in this little chamber there is 
found 
Both earth and heaven — my un. 
iverse of love ! 
All that my God can give me, oi 
remove. 
Here sleeping, save myself, in ml 
mic death. 
Sweet that in this small compass I 
behoove 

To life their living and to brea!,h« 
their breath! 
Almost I wish that, with one common sigh, 
We might resign all mundane care anij 
strife, 
And seek together that transcendent sky, 
Where father, mother, children, misband, 
wife, 
Together pant in everlasting life. 

Thomas Hooix 

THE LIGHT OF HOME. 

My son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, 
And thy spirit will sigii to .'oam, 



^50 



THE LIGHT OF HOME, 




My Son, whhn the World is Dark to Thee, 
Then Turn to the Light of Home. 



L 



--T. ,» </t> . atji „f---i »a«m-i..i— 'j. 



And thou must go ; but never, when there, 
Forget the light of home ! 

Though pleasures may smile with a ray more 
bright, 
It dazzles to lead astray ; 
Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the 
night 
When treading thy lonely way. 

But the hearth of home has a constant flame. 

And pure as vestal fire — 
Twill burn, 'twill burn forever the same. 

For nature feeds the pyre. 

The sea of ambition is tempest-tossed. 
And thy hopes may vanish like foam — 



When sails are shivered and compass lost. 
Then look to the light of home ! 

And there, like a star through midnight cloud, 

Thou'lt see the beacon bright ; 
For never till shining on thy shroud 

Can be quenched its holy light. 

The sun of fame may gild the name, 

But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; 
And fashion's smiles that rich ones claim. 

Are beams of a wintry day : 

How cold and dim those beams would be, 
Should life's poor wanderer come ! — 

My son, when the world is dark to thee. 
Then turn to the light of home. 

Sarah Josepha Hali. 




' /// Jl / / II III If 

THE SEASON IHAT IS COMING. 




X FAIRYLAND CREW CAME WHIRLING AIRILY INTO THE ROOM. 



3 54 



POEMS OF CBH/STMA^-T/BE. 



^h, the fiddlers they played such a merry tune. 
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, three, 

^nd the children they blossomed like roses in June, 
All under the boughs of the Christmas-tree. 



There were little boy-fairies in jewelled coats 

Of pansy-velvet, of cost untold, 
With chains of daisies around their throats. 

And their heads all powdered with lily-gold ! 



/And the fiddlers were scraping so merrily, O, 
With a one, two, three, and a one, two, three ; 

And the children were dancing so cheerily, O, 
All under the shade of the Christmas-tree — 



The fiddlers they laughed till they scarce could see. 
And then they fiddled so cheerily, O, 

And the fairies and children around the tree, 
They all went tripping so merrily, O. 



'5Vhen, all of a sudden, a fairy-land crew 
Came whirling airily into the room, 

j(As light as the fluffy balls, they flew, 

Which fly from the purple thistle-bloom. 



The fiddlers they boxed up their fiddles all ; 

The fairies they silently flew away ; 
But every child at the ChrisVnas ball 

Had danced with a fairy first, they say. 



'^There were little girl-fairies in cobweb frocks 
All spun by spiders from golden threads, 

'With butterfly-wings and glistening locks. 

And strings of dewdrops encircling their heads ! 



So they told their mothers — and did not you 
Ever have such a lovely time at your play. 

My boy and my girl, that it seemed quite true 
That you'd played with a fairy all the day ? 



v.— THE PURITAN DOLL. 



^UR Puritan fathers, stern and good. 
Had never a holiday ; 
Sober and earnest seemed life to them — 
They only stopped working to pray. 

And the little Puritan maidens learned 

Their catechisms through ; 
.And spun their stints, and wove themselves 

Their garments of homely blue. 

.And they never made merry on Christmas day- 
It would savor of Pope and Rome; 

-And never there was a Christmas-tree 
Set up in a Puritan home. 

And Christmas eve, in the chimney-place, 
There was never a stocking hung ; 

There never was woven a Christmas wreath, 
There was never a carol sung. 

Sweet little Ruth, with her flaxen hair 
All neatly braided and tied, 



Was sitting one old December day 
At her pretty young mother's side. 

She listened, speaking never a word. 
With her serious, thoughtful look, 

To the Christmas story her mother read 
Out of the good old Book. 

"I'll tell thee, Ruth ! " her mother cried. 
Herself scarce inore than a girl. 

As she smoothed her little daughter's hair, 
Lest it straggle out into a curl, 

" If thy stint be spun each day this week. 
And thou toil like the busy bee, 

A Christmas present on Christmas day 
I promise to give to thee." 

And then she talked of those merry times 

She never could quite forget ; 
The Christmas cheer, the holly and yule — 

She was hardly a Puritan yet. 



POEMS OF CHRJSTMAS-TIDE. 



She talked of those dear old English days, 

With tears in her loving eyes, 
And little Ruth heard like a Puritan child, 

With a quiet though glad surprise. 



But nevertheless she thought of her gift. 
As much as would any of you, 

And busily round, each day of the week. 
Her little spinning-wheel flew. 




rUlH i ^KLS HtK OiFT. 



Tired little Ruth ! but oh, she thought 

She was paid for it after all. 
When her mother gave her on Christmas daiy 

A little Puritan doll. 

'Twas made of a piece of a homespun sheet-. 

Dressed in a homespun gown 
Cut just like Ruth's, and a little cap 

With a stiff white muslin crown. 

A primly folded muslin cape — 

I don't think one of you all 
Would have been so bold as to dare to play 

With that dignified Puritan doll. 

Dear little Ruth showed her delight 

In her queer little quiet way ; 
She did not say much, but she held her doIS 

In her arms all Christmas day. 

And when at twilight her mother read 

That Christmas story o'er, 
Happy Ruth took the sweetness of it in 

As she never had done before. 

And then (she always said " good-night '" 
When the shadows began to fall) 

She was so happy she went to sleep 
Still holding her Christmas doll. 



VI. —THE GIFT THAT NONE COULD SEE. 



THERE are silver pines on the window-pane, 
A forest of them," said he ; 
" And a huntsman is there with a silver horn, 
Which he bloweth right merrily. 

" And there are a flock of silver ducks 
A-fiying over his head ; 



And a silver sea and a silver hill 
In the distance away," he said. 

"And all of this is on the window-pane. 
My pretty mamma, true as true ! " 

She lovingly smiled, but she looked not up^ 
And faster her needle flew. 



=56 



POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 



A deal little fellow the speaker was — 
Sih er and jewels and gold, 

Lilies ind roses and honey-flowers, 
In a sweet little bundle rolled 

He stood b) the frost) \\indo\'\ pane 
Till he tired of the silver trees, 

The huntsman blowing his silver horn, 
The hills and the silver seas : 



And he breathed on the flock of silver ducks, 
Till he melted them quite away ; 

And he saw the street, and the people pass — 
And the morrow was Christmas day. 




AND ALL OF THIS IS ON THE 

WINDOW-PANE, 
MY TRETTY MAMMA " 



' The children are out, and they laugh and shout, 

I know what it's for," said he ; 
■ And they're dragging along, my pretty mamma, 

A fir for a Christmas-tree." 



On Christmas morning the city through. 
The children were queens and kings. 

With their royal treasuries bursting o'er 
With wonderful, lovely things. 



He came and stood by his mother's side : _ 
" To-night it is Christmas eve, 

And is there a gift somewhere for me, 
Gold mamma, do you believe ? " 



But the merriest child in the city full, 

And the fullest of all with glee. 
Was the one whom the dear Christ Child had brought 

The gift that he could not see. 



Still the needle sped in her slender hands : 

" My little sweetheart," said she, 
"The Christ Child has planned this Christmas for you 

His gift that you cannot see." 



' Quite empty it looks, oh my gold mamma. 
The stocking I hung last night ! " 

■ So then it is full of the Christ Child's gift." 
And she smiled till his face grew bright. 



The boy looked up with a sweet, wise look 

On his beautiful baby-face : 
"Then my stocking I'll hang for the Christ Child's gift. 

To-night, in the chimney-place." 



'Now sweetheart," she said, with a patient look 

On her delicate, weary face, 
' I must go and carry my sewing home, 

And leave thee a little space. 



POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 



357 



" Now stay with thy sweet thoughts, heart's delight, 

And I soon will be back to thee." 
" I'll play, while you're gone, my pretty mamma, 

With my gift that I cannot see," 

He watched his mother pass down the street; 

Then he looked at the window-pane 
Where a garden of new frost-flowers had bloomed 

While he on his bed had lain. 

Then he tenderly took up his empty sock. 

And quietly sat a while. 
Holding it fast, and eyeing it 

With his innocent, trusting smile. 



" And where are you going, you dear little man ? " 

They called to him as he passed ; 
" That empty stocking why do you hold 

In your little hand so fast >. " 

Then he looked at them with his honest eyes, 

And answered sturdily : 
"My stocking \s full to the top, kind sirs, 

Of the gift that I cannot see." 

They would stare and laugh, but he trudged along^ 

With his stocking fast in his hand : 
"And I wonder why 'tis that the people all 

Seem not to understand ! " 







"AND WHERE ARE YOU GOING, YOU DEAR LITTLE MAN P " 



" I am tired of waiting," he said at last ; 

" I think I will go and meet 
My pretty mamma, and come with her 

A little way down the street. 

" And I'll carry with me, to keep it safe. 

My gift that I cannot see." 
And down the street, 'mid the chattering crowd. 

He trotted right merrily. 



" Oh my heart's little flower ! " she cried to him, 

A-hurrying down the street; 
" And why are you out on the street alone ? 

And where are you going, my sweet 1 " 

" I was coining to meet you, my pretty mamma. 

With my gift that I cannot see ; 
But tell me why that the people laugh 

And stare at my gift and me ? " 



A LITTLE SISTER'S STORY. 



Like the Maid at her Son, in the Altar-piece, 
So loving she looked and mild : 

** Because, dear heart, of all that you met, 
Not one was a little child." 

O thou who art grieving at Christmas-tide, 
The lesson is meant for thee : 



That thou mayst get Christ's loveliest gifts 
In ways thou canst not see ; 

And how, although no earthly good 

Seems into thy lot to fall. 
Hast thou a trusting child-like heart, 

Thou hast the best of all. 



A LITTLE SISTER'S STORY. 

By M. E. B. 



WHEN the fairies used to live here. 
Then you know 
There was never any dark, 

Or any snow ; 
But the great big sun kept shining 

All the night, 
And the roses just kept blooming, 

Oh, so bright ! 
And the little children never 

Teased their mothers, 
And the little girls always 

Loved their brothers. 
And the brothers — they were just as 

Mild and kind. 
Every single thing you told them 

They would mind ; 
And they played so very gently — 

But you know 
That was when the fairies lived here, 

Long Ago ! 

Yes, the fairies used to live here ! 

You would meet 
The dear darlings in the garden 

And the street. 
Dressed in rainbows, oh, so lovely ! 

With bright wings. 
And their voices like a linnet 

When he sings. 



And their sweet kind eyes so loving 

That you knew 
They were wishing all good wishes 

Just for you. 
Then the flowers bent to kiss them 

When they'd pass. 
And the small blades reached to hold them 

From the grass ; 
For each pretty thing about them 

Loved them so. 
When the darling fairies lived here. 

Long Ago. 

Then the dollies were not made 

Of wax alone. 
But were just like other babies, 

Flesh and bone ; 
They could sit and they could stand, 

Yes, even walk ; 
They could laugh and they could cry — dear, 

They could talk ! 
And they never got their legs 

Or arms broke. 
When the naughty boys just pulled them 

For a joke. 
For there were no naughty boys, 

— But then you know 
That was when the fairies lived here, 

Long Ago ! 



A L/TTLE SISTEJi'S STORY. 



Then the nurses, when they brushed 

The longest curls, 
Never snapped and hurt the heads 

Of little girls ; 
You could wear your bestest dresses 

Every day, 
And they never spoiled with any 

Kind of play; 



Whips and trumpets, whistles, 

Lovely toys, 
That could make such awful 

Lots of noise ! 
You could eat ice-cream and candy 

All day long. 
And no one ever told you 

It was wrong ! 




THE LITTLE SISTER AND HER BROTHERS. 



You could make mud-pies and still be 

Just as clean 
As the neatest little child 

Was ever seen. 
Eoys' big pockets bulged out 

Full of tops. 
Marbles, pennies, knives and 

Acid drops, 



" What were all the mothers doing ? " 

I don't know ; 
This was when the fairies lived here. 

Long Ago. 
And you never heard a single 

Children cry ! 
" You wish they lived here now ? " Dear, 

So do L 



POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 



POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 



By Mary E. Wilkins. 





THE roOR T-ITTLE FRIENDLY BROWNIE. 






At her spinning the little sister 
Had napped till the setting sun — 

She awoke, and the kindly Brownie 
Had gotten it neatly done ; 

Oh, the Christmas bells they are ringing ! 

The mother she was away, 
And the Brownie'd played with the baby 

And tended it all the day ; 

The Brownie who lives in the forest. 
Oh, the Christmas bells they ring t 

He has done for the farmer's children 
Full many a kindly thing. 

'Tis true that his face they never 
For all their watching could see ; 

Yet who else did the kindly service, 
I pray, if it were not he ! 



THE Brownie who lives in the forest, 
Oh, the Christmas bells they ring I 
He has done for the farmer's children 
Full many a kindly thing : 

When their cows were lost in the gloaming 
He has driven them safely home ; 

He has led their bees to the flowers. 
To fill up their golden comb ; 



But the poor little friendly Brownie, 
His life was a weary thing ; 

For never had he been in holy church 
And heard the children sing; 

And never had he had a Christmas; 

Nor bad bent in prayer his knee \ 
He had lived for a thousand years, 

And all weary-worn was he. 



POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 



z6i 



Or that was the story the children 
Had heard at their mother's side ; 

And together they talked it over, 
One merry Christmas-tide. 

The pitiful little sister 

With her braids of paly gold, 

And the little elder brother, 
And the darling five-year-old, 

All stood in the western window — 
'Twas toward the close of day — 

And they talked about the Brownie 
While resting from their play. 

"The Brownie, he has no Christmas," 

The dear little sister said, 
And a-shaking as she spoke 

Her glossy, yellow head ; 

" The Brownie, he has no Christmas ; 

While so many gifts had we, 
To the floor last night they bended 

The boughs of the Christmas-tree." 

Tlien the little elder brother, 

He spake up in his turn, 
With both of his blue eyes beaming, 

While his cheeks began to burn : 

" Let us do up for the Brownie 

A Christmas bundle now. 
And leave it in the forest pathway 

Where the great oak branches bow. 

" We'll mark it, ' For the Brownie,' 
And ' A Merry Christmas Day ! ' 

And sure will he be to find it, 
For he goeth home that way ! " 



And " We wish a Merry Christmas ! " 
And then, in the dusk, the three 

Went to the wood and left it 
Under the great oak tree. 

While the farmer's fair little children 
Slept sweet on that Christmas night, 

Two wanderers through the forest 
Came in the clear moonlight. 

And neither one was the Brownie, 

But sorry were both as he ; 
And their hearts, with each fresh footstep, 

Were aching steadily. 




IN THE WESTERN WINDOW. 



Then the tender little sister 
With her braids of paly gold. 

And the little elder brother. 
And the darling five-year-old. 



A slender man with an organ 
Strapped on by a leathern band. 

And a girl with a tambourine 
A-holding close to his hand. 



Tied up in a little bundle 

Some toys, with a loving care, 

And marked it, "For the Brownie," 
In letters large rind fair. 



And the girl with the tambourine, 
Big sorrowful eyes she had ; 

In the cold white wood she shivered 
In her ragged raiment clad. 



z64 



POEMS OF CHRISTMAS-TIDE. 



" And what is there here to do ? " she said 
" I'm froze i' the light o' the moon ! 

Shall we play to these sad old forest trees 
Some merry and jigging tune ? 



" Though to-night be the Christ's own birthday night. 

And all the world hath grace, 
There is not a home in all the world 

Which holdeth for us a place." 



" And, father, you know it is Christmas-tiine, 

And had we staid i' the town 
And I gone to one o' the Christmas-trees, 

A gift might have fallen down ! 



Slow plodding adown the forest path, 
" And now, what is this ? " he said ; 

And the children's bundle he lifted up, 
And " For the Brownie," read. 



" You cannot certainly know it would not ! 

I'd ha' gone right under the tree ! 
Are you sure that none o' the Christmases 

Were meant for you and me ? " 



And " We wish a Merry Christmas Day ! " 
" Now if this be done," said he, 

" Somewhere in the world perhaps there is 
A place for you and me ! " 




IN THE COLD WHITE WOOD, 



"These dry dead leaves," he answered her, sad, 

" Which the forest casteth down. 
Are more than you'd get from a Christmas-tree 

In the merry and thoughtless town. 



And the bundle he opened softly : 
"This is children's tender thought ; 

Their own little Christmas presents 
They have to the Brownie brought. 

" If there liveth such tender pity 
Toward a thing so dim and low. 

There is kindness sure remaining 
Of which I did not know. 

" Oh children, there's never a Brownie — 

That sorry uncanny thing ; 
But nearest and next are the homeless 

When the Christmas joy-bells ring. ' 

Out laughed the little daughter, 

And she gathered the toys with glee : 

"My Christmas present has fallen ! 
This oak was my Christmas-tree! " 

Then away they went through the forest, 
The wanderers, hand in hand ; 

And the snow, they were both so merry. 
It glinted like golden sand. 

Down the forest the elder brother, 
In the morning clear and cold, 

Came leading the little sister 
And the darling five-year-old. 

" Oh," he cries, " he's taken the bundle ! " 

As carefully round he peers; 
" And the Brownie has gotten a Christmas 

After a thousand years ! " 



THE ROSE AND THE WAIF. 



265 




IN THE SHOP-LIGHT GLARE. 



THE ROSE AND THE WAIF. 



By May Palmer Daly. 



THE people were hurrying homeward, 
The shops looked cheery and bright, 
As the twilight crept over the city 
With a dusky lingering light, 

Casting a blurring shadow 
Over the ceaseless throng 



Passing and jostling each other, 
Resistlessly sweeping along. 

And the ring of horses' feet 
Broke sharp on the frosty air 

As away a carriage rattled 

Or stopped in the shop-light glare; 



266 



THE ROSE AND THE WAIF. 



And perhaps a woman in trailing silk 
Would step from the carriage door, 

With a faint sweet trace of perfume 
As she hurried into the store. 

. Brightly the lighted fiower-shop 
Shone into the dusl<y street, 
Its glittering windows beautiful 
With the flowers gay and sweet. 

And close to the shining window 

A little girl, poor and thin, 
With her wistful eyes stood gazing 

At the fairy-land within ; 

Her little arms huddled together, 

Her fingers so cold and blue, 
Motionless still ai the night drew on, 

Chilling her through and through. 

Ulstered and furred ai d cosey, 

A man was passing the shop ; 
But a glimpse of the face so wistful 

Moved him to turn and stop. 

And a sorrowful wave of pity 
Swept over his heart at the sight 

Of the little creature standing there 
So wan in the golden light. 

Then, swiftly going toward her, 

He touched her fingers blue : 
"And what do you want, my little one? 

And what can I do for you ? " 

Almost guiltily starting, 

Though cheery and warm his tone, 
She looked with fierce and distrustful eyes 

In the kind ones bent to her own. 

And then, in a tone of defiance, 
With a shake of her little head : 

" What I want is one of them roses 
So big and so warm and red ! " 

"You poor little thing ! " He took her hand. 
And led her into the store ; 



" Now choose for yourself the prettiest one," 
He said as they closed the door. 

How she clasped the rose that he gave her, 
With a rapture before unknown ! 

How the great dark hungry eyes 
With a happy wonder shone 1 

He left her ; and, heedless of all around, 

Out in the cold she went. 
And her life was no longer bitter. 

But sweet with the rose it blent. 




NOW CHOOSE FOR YOURSELF THE PRETTIEST ONE. 

Wandering on in a fairy dream, 

Happy and glad at heart. 
Till — sharp was the shout of warning 

Which turned her back with a start ! 

Tighter she clasped her precious rose, 
Close to her heart 'twas pressed ; 

The fear that the flower would be taken away 
Was the terror that filled her breast. 



A KING'S MERRY CHRISTMAS. 



And back she ran in a frightened way. 

Unheeding the wilder call, 
Right under the feet of the startled steeds — 

A cry — and that was all. 



White and still in the turbulent stream, 
Still clasping the rose she lay — 

The rose that just the space of a dreaia 
Had banished life's sadness away. 




WHITE AND STILL. 



A KING'S MERRY CHRISTMAS. 

By Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt. 



THIS is the story that a dead man writ: 
(Five hundred years ago, it must be quite. 
Worlds-full of children listened once to it 
Who do not ask for stories now at night ; 

Worlds-full of children, who have followed him — 
The King they learned to love and to forgive, 

About whose feet the North-snows once lay dim — 
To the sweet land where he has gone to live.) 

He was a boy whose purple cap could show 
As true a peacock's plume as ever fanned 

Bright royal hair ; but in the gracious glow 
Of his fair head strange things, it seems, were 
planned. 

" To be a prince is well enough," thought he, 
" But then, would it not be a braver thing 

To be — my father, only young! To be," 

He whispered, oh, so low, "to be the King! — 

" My father, who may live for years and yean;; 

And I, meanwhile? Prince Henry to the last! 
Sin, by God's grace, may be washed out with tears. 

And some day I'll have time to pray and fust." 



He blew a blast that wailed from field to field ; 

Then, with his sword's point hurled his father dow 
And bared his own dark forehead, and revealed 

Thereon the sudden lightning of the crown. 

But soon that fire of jewels round his head 

Burned to his heart. He sat forlorn with grief. 

" We'll send across the mountains there," he said, 
" To our great Priest in Italy for relief." 

His Holiness sat thinking in his town 

Of Rome, five minutes, or it may be more ; 

His scarlet Cardinals pulled their brave hats down. 
And thought as Cardinals never thought be- 
fore. 

" Tell him," the reverend Father said, " to build 
Strong churches, and give freely of his gold 

To our poor brothers." — So his realm was filled 
With monks and abbeys. But, shall truth be told? 

His father's shadow would not let him be — 
Till, one fine night, out of the pleasant skies 

Mary looked down, remembering that he 

Was once a child, with sweet half-human eyes. 



268 



A GREAT SHAME. 



" He shall be glad again, for he shall make 
The li'tie ones glad in memory of my Son," 

She said. Her aureole flashed the King awake ; 
He thought: "Let my Lord's mother's will be 
done." 



I only know that still the peasants say, 

In his far country, that a strange King walks 

All night before the Lord Christ's glad birthday, 
And leaves no track — a King who never 
talks ! 



So from his head the cruel crowri he shook, 
And from his breast the ermine cloak he tore, 

And, wrapped in serge, his lonesome way he took 
In the weird night from dreaming door to door. 



And sometimes children, stealing from their bed 
To look if the slow morning yet be near. 

Have seen his sweeping beard and hooded head. 
And gray still smile, with never any fear. 



A very Saint of Christmas in the moon, 

Followed by glimmering evergreens and toys. 

The old King looked. ^ And did they wake too soon, 
TWse blonde-haired, blue-eyed far-back girls and 
boys ? 



They know the dawn will light the loveliest things 
Left in the silence by their silent friend ; 

They know the strange King is the best of Kings, 
And mean to love him till the worlds shall 
end. 



ONCE UPON A TIME. 

By Mary E. M'ilkins. 




N 



SBB READS HIM A "ONCE UPON A TIME" STORY. 



'OW, once upon a time, there were three children, 
And each of them had little daisy-crowns 



Their mother freshly wove for them each morning. 
And all of them wore dotted muslin gowns. 

And, once upon a time, the three went rambling 
Away from home, amid the wild greenwood ; 

And, once upon a time, they met a lambkin. 
And not a wolf like poor Red Riding Hood ; 

And, once upon a time, the three fell weeping : 
" Oh, we are lost ! where can our mother be ! " 

Then meekly spake the little snow-white lambkin: 
" If you will come, I'll take you home with me." 

And, once upon a time, the lambkin trotted 
Briskly away (the west was turning gold). 

And, once upon a time, the children followed, 
And entered shyly in the lambkin's fold ; 

And, once upon a time, among the lambkins 
The children slumbered, in their muslin gowns. 

Till morning came; and then they found their mother. 
Who wove for them anew their daisy-crowns. 




THE KINO •« DEAD I LONG LIVE THE KING ! 



THE LAST OF THE PIPPINS. 



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THERE'S JUST ENOUGH FOR ONE MORE FEAST. 

THE LAST OF THE PIPPINS, 

By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. 



THESE are the last of the pippins; 
There's just enough, you see, 
For one more feast in tire light of the fire, 
For all the family. 

"Such a cosey lunch is an apple, 

Before one goes to bed ! 
And we'll hear the fairy story then 

Mamma has promised Ted." 

Up-stairs Jack carried the apples ; 

The ruddy coals were stirred ; 
And as down in the cheery glow they sat, 

This is the tale they heard : 

PRINCESS APPLE-SEED AND HER SISTERS. 

Long time age there was a king, 
Who, without sense or reason, 

Shut all his pretty daughters up 
Within a gloomy prison. 



There were so many, he had felt 

Them very troublesome : 
There were Apple-seed and Apple-corD;. 

And little Apple-crumb; 
There were Wire, Brier, Limber-lock — 
A dozen, maybe, in the flock. 

His order read : " Let every one 

Put on a cloak of black, 
And each be shut from the world so close 

She never can come back." 
The dismal hinges creaked and swung ^ 
Outside a mournful phcebe sung. 

The little daughters in the^r cells 

Lay very snug and warm. 
The heavy walls kept out the cold^ 

And shed the winter storm. 
But the hinges rusted on the doors 

The king had thought so .;*out; 



THE LAST OF THE PIPPINS. 



And presently the princesses 

Came gayly stepping out. 
They had rested well, were wide awake, 

And very glad to come ; 
There were Apple-seed and Apple-corn, 

And little Apple-crumb; 
There were Wire, Brier, Limber-lock^ 
Fully a dozen in the flock. 

Then every one in the warm sun 
Dropped off her cloak of black, 

And threw a shining scarf of green 
Across her slender back. 

Where, soft as a morning mist, it clung; 

And loud the happy blackbird sung. 

There, year by year, they gjew apace, 

And grave and simple stood; 
Till suddenly, one April day — 

As every princess should — 
Each put a wedding garment on, 

White as the drifted snows. 
And blushed through all her finery 

Red as a damask rose. 
Ah, how the birds did chant and shout, 

And how the bees did hum — 
Por Apple-seed and Apple-corn, 

And little Apple-crumb, 
For Wire, Brier, Limber-lock, 
And all the lovely bridal flock ! 

"Twas not for grief, but from relief. 

As ladies often do. 
That the Sky took out her handkerchief 

And shed a tear or two. 
Meanwhile the music chimed and rung, 
As orioles, thrushes, robins, sung. 
At last the brides their gay attire 

Laid by, to stand serene, 



As summer waned into the fall. 
In matron dress of green. 

And each within her tender arms 
Did gently rock and hold, 

For sun to see, and breeze to touch, 
Some little heads of gold. 




WHITE Ai THb DRU lEU SNOW. 

The orchard then was beautiful, 
Though birds and bees were dumb, 

For Apple-seed, and Apple-corn, 
And little Apple-crumb, 

For Wire, Brier, Limber-lock, 

Each had her own fair household flock. 





THE TIIOIGIITFIL SISTKll 



THE PEACOCK THAT SAILED AWAY. 



2>je 



THE PEACOCK THAT SAILED AWAY. 



BY MRS. L. C. WHITON. 



A PEACOCK one day was spreading his tail, 
And he said, " What veryfme feathers are mine ! 
I think, if to cities abroad I could sail, 
Among foreign birds I should shine ; 
So I'll take a short cruise up the Rhine." 



So he took off the handle, a rudder to make, 
And said, "Perhaps by some fortunate turn, 

A v/heel from the car of Old Time I can take 
And I'll have it put in at the stern ; 
And for sails I will take the sweet-fern." 



He said to the stars, that were hidden all day, 

" I'll borrow the dipper, of which you're so proud, 

And I'll launch it at once, and go sailing away, 
And I'll see if the world is round. 
And if China is under the ground." 



So he got out his charts as he went down the bay, 
With his feathers and sails outspread to the sun, 

And he said, " I'll come back in a year and a day 
For my voyage by then will be done — " 
But he didn't, and that is the fun ! 



THE ROMAN BOY'S TROPHIES. — A. D. 6i. 



By Margaret J. Preston. 



I HAVE witnessed the great Ovation, 
I have watched as they slew the sheep ; 
As they marched from the Campus Martins 

To the Capitol's sacred steep : 
I was proud, as I saw my father 

From the fiery East come home ; 
I was proud, as I looked on the captives 
And the spoils he had brought to Rome ! 



Ah, Rome is a grand old city ! 

And it flushes my soul with joy 
That my father has won a Triumph — 

That I am a Roman boy ! 
I am glad of the lordly conquests 

He gained on that far-off shore, 
That have given the State a splendor 

It seldom hath known before. 



It was noble to see the captives 

( — Poor fellows ! I think they wept !) 

Go chained, as the victor's chariot 
Behind them in triumph swept : 



Have ikey any boys, I wonder, 
Like Marcus and me, at home '! 

— Who cares ? They are bold plebeian^ 
They have dared to fight with Rome ! 



But now that the march is over, 

Ho ! comites, come and see 
What spoils from that Eastern country 

My father hath brought for me ! 
Here — lean from the vt'ide fenestra, 

And look at this branching bough ; 
Did ever you see together 

Such birds as I show you now ? 



How wise they are looking at me I 

Ha, Claudius ? — didst thou say 
That some of Minerva's nestlings 

From Athens are caught away ? 
They are angry that they are fettered ; 

See ! each of them frowns and scow it ■ 
I think thou hast hit it, Claudius — 

I think they're Minerva's owls ! 



376 



ROASTING CORN. 




IN grandpa's cornfield. 



ROASTING CORN. 



By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates. 



AFAINT blue cloud of smoke 
xV Creeps up the golden air : 
It must be the wandering gypsy folk 
Have lighted a fire there. 

No doubt they have covered vans, 

And ponies shaggy and lean, 
Which they will tether with dusky hands 

Along the wayside green. 

And the bells on their bridles hung 

Will tinkle idly sweet, 
With the chatter of children, rude of tongue 

And bare of feet — 

While, with grimy tents spread out, 

Their elders lazily 
Wait for the steam of the kettle-spout 

To hum the time for ter.. 



Though surely I can get 

But whiffs of the camp-fire smoke, 
And though I know they are vagrants, yet 

I will visit these gypsy folk. 

Well, now ! and is this Jack.? 

This Gold-locks ? and this Ted? 
With clothes and fingers a smutty black 

And cheeks a burning red — 

So hungry and forlorn, 

In grandpa's ample house. 
That you must pilfer an ear of com 

And nibble it like a mouse ? 

Will I have some ? The smell 

Is of itself a treat. 
I'll trust the boys and girls to tell 

When things are good to eat ! 




THE ROMAN boy's SPOILS, 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. WILLIE WEE. 



2/9 




NTO the silent waiting East 

There cometh a shining light 
Far, far, 
Through a dull gray bar 
Closing over a dying star 

That watched away the night — 
Rise, rise, shine and glow, 
Over a wide white world of snow, 
Sun of the Christmas-tide ! 

Out of the Northland bleak and batt, 

O wind with a royal roar, 
Fly, fly. 
Through the broad arched sky, 
Flutter the snow, and rattle and cry 

At every silent door — 
Loud, loud, till the children hear. 
And meet the day with a ringing cheer : 

" Hail to the Christmas-tide ! " 



Out of the four great gates of day 

A tremulous music swells ; 
Hear, hear. 
Now sweet and clear, 
Over and under and far and near, 

A thousand happy bells : 
Joy, joy, and jubilee ! 
Good-will to men from sea to sea, 

This merry Christmas-tide ! 

Lo ! in the homes of every land 
The children reign to-day ; 
They alone. 
With our hearts their throne, 
And never a sceptre but their own 
Small hands to rule and sway ! 
Peace, peace — the Christ-child's love — 
Flies over the world, a white, white dove, 
This happy Christmas-tide ! 



WILLIE WEE. 



By Mrs. A. M. Diaz. 



TWO lads were conversing as happy as kings. 
Of the coming of Christmas and all that it 
brings, 
Of the Christmas-tree and its many delights. 
Of the city shop-windows and other fine sights. 
When out spake wee Will, sometimes called " Willie 
wee," 



Though often "sweet William," or "little Willee," 
— Four years and a half or three-quarters was he— 
" Say ! What kind of a tree is a Chrissermus-tree .' " 
And the while they discoursed, as his wonder grew, 
With questions like these he followed them through : 
" Does it have big branches that spread all around ? 
Do its roots stay deep down in the dark ground ? 



28o 



WILLIE WEE. 



Does it grow, grow, grow, way up very high ? 

If you climb to the top will your head bump the slcy ? 

Do any plumbs grew on it, or apples, or cherries ? 

Or any good nuts, or pretty red berries ? 

Does it bloom out all over with flowers white as snow, 

As that tree does down there in our garden below ? 

Do robins and king-birds build nests in that tree ? 

And other birdies too ? " asked little Willee. 



" No flowers bloom there, snowy white, 
Yet with these fruits — a curious sight — 
Are oft seen flowers both red and white ! 
Should you climb to the top without a fall, 
Your head might bump against the wail, 
But not against the sky, you see. 
For indoors stands the Christmas-tree ! " 
" You tell very big stories," quoth little Willee, 




"you tell very big stories I" quoth little willes. 



Thus answered Ned, wise, school-boy Ned : 

" A Christmas-tree, young curly-head. 

Has branches, sure, but has no roots. 

And on its branches grow no fruits ; 

Yet bright red apples there you'll see, 

And oranges of high degree — 

Apples and oranges on one tree ! " 

"That sounds very strange," quoth little Willee. 



" No birdie there doth build its nest. 
No king-bird, blue-bird, robin redbreast. 
Yet eggs thereon are often seen. 
Of beautiful colors, pink, and green, 
And purple, and lavender, fit for a queen. 
Even eggs with pictiires on them are found, 
And with golden bands which circle around. 
But from all these eggs so fair to see. 



WILLIE WEE. 



281 



Are hatched no birds in that Christmas-tree ; 
Instead, are hatched candy and gumdrops ! " said he. 
" Are you telHng the truth ? " asked little Willee. 

" I've not told half, I do declare, 

Of all those wondrous branches bear. 

Bear ? They bear dolls and whips and drums. 

Tops, whistles, taffy, sugar-plums. 

And candy sheep, and candy cats, 

And candy birds, and candy rats, 

And India-rubber girls and boys. 

Bear trumpets and all kinds of toys. 

Bear books, and jumping-jacks, and mittens, 

And little cotton-flannel kittens ; 

And over the whole of this Christmas-tree 

Candles are burning right merrily ! 

What think you of this ? my sweet Willle-wee ? '' 

" I think you are fooling ! " said little Willee. 

Next morning young Willie, with serious air. 

Put earth in a flower-pot, and buried up there 

A seed of an apple with very great care. 

" Pray, what are you doing, you rogue Willie-wee r ' 

" I am planting a seed for a Chrissermas-Xx&& \ 

Is not that good to do ? " asked little Willee. 

— There came from that seed a green little shoot 

Which put out its leaves and firmly took root, 

And so finely did thrive that at last it was found 

Too large for the house and was set in the ground. 

Where it grew up, a tree, one scarcely knew how. 

Look down by the wall ; it is standing there now. 

It blossoms in springtime, and many a nest 

Has been built there by king-bird and robin redbreast ; 

And other birdies too oft come to the tree 

And sing there and swing there, oh, so merrily ; 



They make it all summer our joy and delight ; 
And in fall of the year 'tis a beautiful sight 
When the clustering wealth of its apples is seen — 
Its ruby red apples all set in their green ! 

— And Willie ? Yes, he grew up, too, young Willie-wee, 
And went as a sailor-boy over the sea. 

He sailed in a ship to some far distant shore ; 

A storm came — and — and — we saw him no more. 

It was long, long ago that deep sorrow we bore ! 

The lads who were talking, as happy as kings, 

Of the coming of Christmas and all that it brings. 

Are fathers now, so stately and tall. 

Their children play by the garden wall, 

And swing on the boughs of the apple tree, 

Or climb to the top, the world to see ; 

(Some have gone from the home the world to see !) 

And when autumn comes, and leaves turn brown, 

And the ripened fruits are shaken down. 

And here and there, on the orchard ground, 

The red and the golden are heaped around — 

'Tis the children who gather that tree by the wall. 

And the apples from off its boughs that fall, 

With kindly care are stored away. 

Sure to appear on Christmas Day 

In platter or basket for all to admire, 

Or hung on strings before the fire. 

There to swing and sputter and roast, 

While many an one of the merry host 

Gives a tender thought to that first Willie-wee 

Who went as a sailor-boy over the sea. 

The youngest of all ; a new Willie-wee, 

— A curly-haired rogue, and our darling is he ! — 
Now claims for his own uncle Will's Christmas-tree, 
"Because," says the child, "^(? was nambd for me!" 




2S3 



COURTESY. 



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SUMMER SPEAKING TO SPRING. 

COURTESY. 

By Mrs. L. C. Wkitow. 

OUMMER said to the Spring, "What a wonderful "You beautiful Coiner," said Spring to the Summer, 
'^ thing " I lived out my life but to brighten your way ; 

It is to bring in so much sweetness and grace — I heard the buds swelling, and could not help ),ell- 
I an> sure that to you my blossoms are due, ing. 

And I feel I am taking your place. For I knew you would see them some day. 



" I never can blush, but I think of your flush ; 

And the eyes of the flowers at evening are wet ; 
There was something so fair in your innocent air 

That your going we can but regret" 



" It was only my duty to bring you the beauty, 
And to help one another is lesson for all ; 

And perhaps you'll be willing, your mission fulfilling. 
To leave something to brighten the Fall. 




COME INTO THE GARDEN, KATE. 



IN MIDSUMMER. 



2S5 




THE SILENCE OF THE MORNING'S SPLENDOR. 



IN MIDSUMMER. 



BY MRS. L. C. WHITON. 



INTO silence of the morning's splendor 
There is shak'n a golden robin's dream ; 
Kissed by sunshine to divine surrender, 
Bloom the snowy lilies in the stream ; 
Soft south winds the hidden wild flowers woo 
And between the tangled leaves in view — 
Hush ! I see the Summer, 
Summer, 

Summer floating through. 



Bees in rose-leaf cradles softly shaken, 

Rocked throughout the moonlight by the breeze^ 
Loitering on their perfumed pillows, waken 
To the murmured transport of the trees ; 
Night's lament is told in tears of dew ; 
Willow bloom is bathed to crystal hue — 
Hush ! I see the Summer, 
Summer, 

Summer flashing through. 



Climbs the sun, with ecstasy of shining. 

From the blush of rising into gold ; 
And the river's heart, with close defining 

Tells the same sweet story it is told ; 
Hills are veiled in tender mists anew ; 
From the liquid skies' unshadowed blue - 
Hush ! I see the Summer, 
Summer, 

Summer flooding through. 



386 



FATRTES, OR FIREFLfES. LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE. 



FAIRIES — OR FIREFLIES? 



LET'S see. We believe in wings, 
We believe in the grass and dew, 
We believe in the moon — and other things 
That may be true. 



But, are there any ? Talk low. 

( Look ! What is that eery spark ? ) 

If there are any why, there they go, 

Out in the dark. 



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'---^A^MM^lll//-/,!}{l .11-: i 




TO BED AT EIGHT u'CLUCK 1 



LITTLE LOTTIE'S GRIEVANCE. 



MAMMA'S in Heaven ! and so, you see, 
My sister Bet's mamma to me. 
O ! yes, 1 love her ! . . . that's to say, 
I love her well the whole bright day; 



For Sis is kind as kind can be, 
Until, indeed, we've finished tea — 
Then (why did God make ugly night.?) 
She never, never treats me right, 



CORPORAL CLOVER. 



287 



But always says, " Now, Sleepy Head, 
'Tis getting late ! come up to bed ! " 

Just when the others, Fred and Fay, 
Dolly and Dick, are keen for play — 
Card-houses, puzzles, painted blocks. 
Cat-corner, and pert Jack-in-the-box — 
I must (It's that bad gas, I think, 
That makes me, somehow, seem to wink ! ), 
Must leave them all to seek the gloom 
Of sister Bet's close-curtained room, 
Put on that long stiff gown I hate, 
And go to bed — oh, dear ! at eight ! 

Now, is it fair that I who stand 
Taller than Dolly by a hand, 
(I'll not believe, howe'er 'tis told. 
That Cousin Doll is ten years old ! ) 
And just because I'm only seven. 
Should be so teazed, yes, almost driven, 
Soon as I've supped my milk and bread. 
To that old drowsy, frowsy bed ? 



I've lain between the dusky posts. 

And shivered when I thought of ghosts j 

Or else have grown so mad, you know. 

To hear those laughing romps below. 

While there I yawned and stretched (poor me!) 

With one dim lamp for company. 

I've longed for courage just to dare 

Dress softly — then trip down the stair. 

And in the parlor pop my head 

With, " No, I will not stay a-bed !" 

I'll do it yet, all quick and bold. 
No matter how our Bet may scold ; 
For oh ! I'm sure it can't be right 
To keep me here each dismal night. 
Half scared by shadows grimly tall 
That dance along the cheerless wall, 
Or by the wind, with fingers chill. 
Shaking the worn-out window-sill — 
One might as well be sick, or dead, 
As sent, by eight o'clock, to bed ! 



CORPORAL CLOVER. 




ROUND cap and red feather 
Bobbing in the summer weather. 
Pretty suit of mottled green — 
A finer fellow was never seen ! 
He nods and beckons to the daisies ; 
At the wild rose winks and gazes ; 
Listens to the brown-bee's story 
Of her summer joy and glory ; 
The birds come and sing above him ; 
The little chirping crickets love him ; 
The beetles in their shining armor 
March gravely round the merry charmer- 
What a life for Red-feather, 
Smiling in the summer weather. 
With the blue sky arching over — 
Jolly little Corporal Clover I 



JOHN S. CROW. 




" WAITING FOR JOHN TO BE GONE.' 



That old blue coat, 
With a double breast 

And a brass button here and there. 
Was grandfather's best, 
And matches the vest — 

The one Uncle Phil used to wear. 



ALL alone in the field 
Stands John S. Crow ; 
And a curious sight is he, 
With his head of tow, 
And a hat pulled low 

On a face that you nevef see. 



The trousers are short ; 
They belonged to Bob 

Before he had got his growth ; 
But John's no snob, 
And, unlike Bob, 

Cuts his legs to the length of his cloth. 




THE FAITHFUL WATCHMAN, JOHN S. CROW. 



His clothes are ragged 
And horrid and old. 

The worst that ever were worn ; 
They're covered with mold. 
And in each fold 

A terrible rent is torn. 



The boots are a mystery : 
How and where 

John got such a shabby lot, 
Such a shocking pair, 
I do declare. 

Though he may know, I do not. 



They once were new 
And spick and span, 

As nice as clothes could be ; 
For though John hardly can 
Be called a man. 

They were made for men, you see. 



But the hat that he wears 
Is the worst of all ; 

I wonder that John keeps it on. 
It once was tall. 
But now it is small — 
Like a closed accordeon. 




nx NOTEMBEK ATOODS 



JOHN S. CROW. 



291 



But a steady old chap 
Is John S. Crow, 

And for months has stood at his post ; 
For corn you know 
Takes time to grow, 

And 'tis long between seed and roast. 




So he has stuck to the field 
And watched the corn. 

And been watched by the crows from 
the hill ; 
Till at length they're gone, 
And so is the corn — 

They away, and it to the mill. 

Now the work is done, 
And it's time for play. 

For which John is glad I know ; 
For though made of hay. 
If he could he would say, 

" It's stupid to be a scarecrow." 

But though it is stupid, 
And though it is slow. 

To fill such an humble position ; 
To be a good scarecrow 
Is better I know 
' Than to scorn a lowly 
condition. 




GRANDFATHER. 

And it had to be watched 
And guarded with care 

From the time it was put in the ground ; 
For over there, 
And everywhere; 

Sad thieves were waiting around. 



Sad thieves in black, 
A cowardly set, 

Who waited for John to be gone, 
That they might get 
A chance to upset 

The plans of the planter of com. 

They were no kin to John, 

Though they bore his name v ■■! iij. 

And belonged to the family Crow J ^^^ 
He'd scorn to claim ^ 

Any part of the fame 

That is theirs wherever you go. 




NO KIN TO JOHN. 



292 



THE CONSPIRACY OF THE WEATHER-COCKS. 



WEATHERrC 





Wk^ 



THE HOMES AND CHURCHES. 



MY house stands high on the hill-top ; 
From its windows looking down 
I see in the distance mountains 

With slopes of green and brown, 
And nearer, the homes and churches 
And busy streets of the town. 

And over the pleasant landscape 

Wherever I cast my eye, 
From many-storied buildings, 

And domes and steeples high, 
Twelve brightly gilded weather-cocks 

Stand out against the sky ! 



Good friends they are, and faithful, 
Whom I most dearly prize ; 

For the children of the neighbors 
They count me weather-wise, 



And almost daily meet me 
With eager, questioning eyes ; 

" Will it be fair to-morrow ? " 

" Or will it rain to-day ,? " 
They ask when the sunset's rosy, 

Or morning mists are grey — 
Then I turn to my chamber window 

To see what the weather-cocks say. 

One on the tallest steeple 

Stands proudly at his ease ; 
Ever alert and watchful 

He faces the lightest breeze ; 
And the children and I have named him 

"Old Probabilities." 



One night — 'twas in September, 
And the moon was shining bright- 

I rose from my bed at midnight, 
For I could not sleep aright, 

To look at the sleeping city 
And the beauty of the night. 



Then the sight I saw was never 
Witnessed before nor since ! 

There stood Old Probabilities 
Perched on my garden fence, 

And many shining weather-cocks 
From all parts flying thence. 



THE CONSPIRACY OF THE WEATHER-COCKS. 



293 



On the ground alighted before him 
Each strange and glittering bird — 

I was so full of wonder 

I neither spoke nor stirred — 

And the rousing speech he made them 
I heard it every word. 

" Friends," said the speaker^ proudly, 

" We are a glorious race ! 
And men do well to give us 

The most exalted place. 
Are not their rain and sunshine 

Dependent on our grace .? 

" We turn to the north — the cold winds 

Bring us their ice and snow ; 
To the south — and the warm spring breezes 



Who prize your ancient fame ! 
Arise, we yet will show them 
Deeds worthy of a name ! 



" Fly back to your domes and towers, 

And firmly plant your feet ! 
Set your faces straight to the southward 

Till the wind comes strong and fleet ! 
Be firm, and the day is ours ! 

Farewell ! Revenge is sweet ! " 

Then I heard their brazen pinions 
Clash through the silent night ; 

But a cloud o'er the moon was passing 
And I did not see their flight. 

Returning then to my pillow, 
I slept till morning light. 




THE MIDNIGHT MEETING OF THE WEATHER-COCKS. 



Make the waters melt and flow ; 
We bow to the west — the rain clouds 
Fold up their tents and go. 

" And do men therefore praise us ? 

O, friends, I speak with pain ! 
They call us weak and worthless, 

Changeable, fickle, vain : 
They make us a scorn and by-word — 

You have heard it once and again. 

" Therefore my wrath is kindled 

Into a mighty flame. 
Arise ! ye noble weather-cocks, 



In the morning the children met me 
With " Noio what do you think ? " 

The weather-cocks stood out against 
A sky as black as ink — 

I almost thought I could see them 
Nod to each other, and wink. 



And before a word of answer 

Had time to come from my mouth. 

The trees were bending and swaying 
With a sudden gust from the south. 

Swifter it came, and swifter, 

Till a strong gale blew from the soutb. 



294 



AN INCURSION OF THE DANES. 



Then came the clattering rain-drops, 

Each heavy as a stone ; 
While the blue floor of the harbor 

All rough and black had grown ; 
And the vessels dragged their anchors 

And towards the beach moved on. 



The crowded streets of the city 
In a moment were empty quite ; 

From the fields ran the cattle for shelter 
All huddled together in fright ; 

And the birds flew into the forest 
Where it was dark as night. 




ON THE BLUE FLOOR OF THE HARBOR. 

The children watched from the window 
As the leaves flew by in flocks ; 

"How the wind roars and whistles," 
They cried, " and the steeple rocks ! " 

But I only heard the shrieking 
Of those angry weather-cocks. 



AN INCURSION OF THE DANES. 



THE children come in with a breeze and a rush. 
Leaving the windows and doors ajar \ 
They scatter their treasures as trees in a gust 
Strow leaves on the winds afar. 

" We're a barbarian host ! — we've come 

Down from the tops of the mountains steep ; 

We are the Vandals, the Goth and the Hun 
Out of the Norse forests deep ! " 

Mamma looked up from her burning cake, 
And instantly saw through the children's fun ; 

" Don't come too near me, for pity's sake — 
My lard is burning, you terrible Hun ! " 

"We are the chiefs of the Danish hordes ! " 

Cried the golden-haired Vandal gruff and bold ; 



" Is this the best that your hovel affords — 
A fried cake, burnt and cold ? " 

" He burned it — yon Sleepy-head, idling there ! " 
She laughed (for the fun was too good to lose}, 

With a comical shrug at the corner where 
Poor papa sat reading the news. 

" The oaf ! " out-thundered the Danish chief ; 

" He shall have other business than frying cakes ; 
We've a steed in the street — he shall find to his grief 

He is not at your hearth when he wakes ! " 

Papa laughed " Ha ! ha ! " as he sprang to his feet ; 

They were cunningly caught for their pains — 
For up his own stairway instead of the street 

King Alfred ran off with his Danes. 



THE WEED'S MISSION. 



"^i 




^VEED'S MISSION. 



BY MARGARET EYTINGE. 



TALL grew a weed outside a garden gate, 
Inside a gladiole in splendor grew. 
"Why &o yoic with the autumn blossoms wait?" 
The flower asked. " There is no need of you. 
In truth, I know not why )'^ou live at all — 
Only a few, pale, yellow blooms you bore 
And worthless are your seeds. Pray, droop and falL 
I should not grieve at seeing you no more. 
/ grace the world, for evening's brightest skies 
Are not more rich in gold and red than I, 
And every day the ling'ring butterflies 
Beg me to stay till they must say ' good-by.' " 



" Yes, you are beautiful," the weed replied, 

In patient voice, " and I am plain indeed. 

But God knows why." Just then a bird, bright-eyed 

And scarlet-beaked, saw the clust'ring seed, 

And lighting on a slender branch he ate 

With many a little chirp of thankful glee. 

Then spread his wings and perched upon the gate, 

And blessed his wayside friend in melody. 

" Ah ! said the weed, when he had flown, "proud flower, 

A hungry, south-bound bird you could not feed 

Though you rejoice in Beauty's gracious dow'r — 

That boon was granted to an humble weed ! " 



296 



" NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP." 



"NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP/ 

" Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray thee Lord my soul to keep — " 
So the baby learned her prayer 
Kneeling by her mother's chair ; 
In her little bed-gown white, 
Said it over every night ; 
Learning, in her childish way, 
How a little child could pray. 




' Now I Lay Me Down 



■ Now I lay me down to sleep — " 
Said the child a maiden grown : 
Thinking, with a backward glance. 
How the happy past had flown, 



Since, beside her mother's knee, 
With a child's humility, 
She had said her simple prayer, 
Feeling safe in Jesus' care. 

" I pray thee Lord my soul to keep — " 
Yet the words were careless said : 
Lightly had the hand of Time 
Laid his fingers on her head ; 
On Life's golden afternoon 
Gay the bells and sweet the tune, 
And upon her wedding-day 
She had half forgot to pray. 

" Now I lay me down to sleep — " 
How the words come back again, 
With a measure that was born 

Half of pleasure, half of 

pain: 
Kneeling by a cradle 

bed. 
With a hand upon each 

head. 
Rose the old prayer, soft 

and slow. 
As a brooklet in its flow. 

All alone with bended 
head, 

She has nothing but her 
dead ; 

Yet with heart so full of 
care. 

Still her lips repeat the 
prayer ; 

Rest at last ! oh, storm- 
tossed soul ! 

Safe beyond the break- 
ers' roll : 

He, the Lord, her soul 
shall keep, 

Now she lays her down 
to sleep ! 

"NOW I LAY ME." 

Bed-time for the twittering birdies 
Mother Wren has hushed to rest ; 



THE DOUBLE PRAYERS. 



^99 



Bed-time for my little birdie, 
iSTestled closely to my breast. 

Now beside me lowly kneeling, 
Hear the lisping tongue repeat — 

Dear old prayer of tender memory — 
"Now I lay me down to sleep." 




* Rosy Lips Petition Make. 



With what trusting grace, and tender, 

Hosy lips petition make : 
" Pray thee Lord to take my spirit, 

If I die before I wake." 
And no thought of dread comes o'er me 

As I kiss her sweet "good-night." 
We're so careless of our darlings 

Till we lay them out of sight ! 

Once again 'tis birdie's bed-time ; 

Little neighbors in the tree 
Hush their baby bird to slumber, 

With no thought of lonely me. 
Ah! my mother's arms are empty, 

Draped in sadness all the room. 
And no whispered " Now I lay me," 

Breaks upon the twilight gloom. 



Down to sleep ! Ah, yearning mother, 

Murmuring and sick at heart. 
Full of joy shall be the waking, 

Where no sorrow finds a part. 
There we'll find our garnered treasures, 

From all pain and earth-cares free. 
Where no sad good-bye shall pain us 

Through a long eternity. 

Smooth and white the little pillow, 

Undisturbed the pretty bed, 
On the table lie her playthings, 

Mute reminder of my dead. 
For no more my little treasure 

My sad mother's heart may keep ; 
In the heavenly Father's bosom 

I have laid her down to sleep. 



THE DOUBLE PRAYER. 

A mother bent above the couch 
Where her tired children lay ; 

Tired in the evening-time 
Of the pleasures of the day. 

Already on one's rosy cheek 
The hue of sleep was cast ; 

The other heard his mother's step, 

And called her as she past, 
To give him yet another kiss, 

The dearest and the last. 

" Good-night, my darling one," she said; 

" But hast thou said thy prayer 
That God and his good angels 

Should keep thee in their care ? " 
The child arose, and kneeling 

Beside his little cot, 
Prayed as only a child can pray 

Whom doubt assaileth not •• 
Alas, that knowledge should but dim 

The lustre of our lot ! 

His young face looked so pure and good, 
So full of hope and brightness. 

She sighed to think that earthly ill 
Must ever mar its brightness. 



300 



NUBSEBY PBAYEBS. 



But, hush ! the little prayer is said. 

And registered in heaven ; 
The parting blessing of the night, 

With many a kiss, is given ; 
And closing were his weary eyes 

Where sleep so long had striven. 

But the little brother turned and sighed, 

As though some restless dream 
Were casting its dark shadow 

Where sunshine else had been ; 
And the child, though weary, rose again, 

And knelt upon the floor 
To say that simple prayer again 

That he had said before, — 
A mortal could not wish it less, '; 

Nor angels have it more. 

And when the prayer was finished 

He said, as to explain, 
" This, God, is for my brother : 

He won't forget again." 
And then the smile came stealing 

To the little sleeper's face; 
And both were soon unconsciously 

Entwined in one embrace. 
The bursting songs of angels 

Re-echoed round that place. 



NURSERY PRAYERS. 

N the quiet nursery 
chambers, 
Smwy pillows yet un- 
pressed, 
See the forms of little 
children 
Kneeling, white-robed, 
for their rest ; 
All in quiet nursery 
chambers, 
While the dusky shad- 
ows creep. 
Hear the voices of the 
children — 
" Now I lay me r^owii 
to sleep." 




On the meadow and the mountain 

Calmly shine the winter stars, 
But across the glistening lowlands 

Slant the moonlight's silver bars: 
In the silence and the darkness. 

Darkness growing still more deep, 
Listen to the little children 

Praying God their souls to keep. 



" If we die " — so pray the children, 

And the mother's head drops low ; 
(One from out her fold is sleeping 

Deep beneath the winter's snow ; ) 
"Take our souls : " and past the casement 

Flits a gleam of crystal light. 
Like the trailing of his garments, 

Walking evermore in white. 



Little souls that stand expectant 

Listening at the gates of life. 
Hearing, far away, the murmur 

Of the tumult and the strife ; 
We who fight beneath those banners, 

Meeting ranks of foeman there. 
Find a deeper, broader meaning 

In your simple vesper prayer. 



When your hands shall grasp this standard, 

Which to-day you watch from far. 
When your deeds shall shape the conflict 

In this universal war : 
Pray to Him, the God of Batdes, 

Whose strong eye can never sleep. 
In the warring of temptation 

Firm and true your souls to keep. 



When the combat ends, and slowly 

Clears the smoke from out the skies, 
Then far down the purple distance 

All the noise of battle dies. 
When the last night's solemn shadows 

Settle down on you and me. 
May the love that never faileth 

Take our souls eternally. 



AN UNFINISHED P SATES. 



301 




AN UNFINISHED PRAYER. 

OW I lay me" — say it, 
darling ; 
" Lay me," lisped the 
tiny lips 
9i my daughter, kneeling, 
bending 
O'er her folded finger-tips. 

_ jwn to sleep — to sleep," she mur- 
mured. 

And the curly head dropped ifi"-'"i>'Jvj}Kitv . ii-, 

low, 
" I pray thee Lord," I 
gently added, — ; 
"You can say it all, I 
know." 



" I'ray the Lord " — the 
words came faintly, 
Fainter still — " My soul 
to keep ; " 
Ti?.€n the tired head fairly 
nodded, 
And the child was fast 
asleep. 

But the dewy eyes half 
opened 
When I clasped her to 
my breast, 
And the dear voice softly 
whispered, 
" Mamma, God knows all 
the rest." 



Oh, the trusting, sweet con- 
fiding 
Of that child-heart! — 
Would that I 
Thus might trust my Heav- 
enly Father, 
He who hears my hum- 
blest cry! 



LULLABY, 



Hush, dear child, lie still and slumber. 

Holy angels gaurd thy bed, 
Heavenly blessings without number 

Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe ; thy food and raiment, 
House and home, thy friends provide. 

All without thy care and payment ; 
All thy wants are well suijplied. 

How much better thou art attended 
r-^^^ — ^^-^a-sn-sTCT, Than the Son of God 
could be, 
jWhen from heaven he de- 
I scended, 

And became a child like 
thee! 




'Down to Sleep — 'to Sleei-/ She M 



303 



A ROCKING HYMN 



Soft and easy is thy cradle, 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 

When his birthplace was a stable. 
And his softest bed was hay. 

Was there nothing but a manger 
Wretched sinners could afford, 

To receive the heavenly Stranger ? 
Did hey thus affront their Lord ? 

See the joyful shepherds round him, 
Telling wonders from the sky ; 

Where they sought him, there they found 
him, 
With his virgin-mother by. 

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying. 
That thy blest Redeemer came ; 

He by groans and bitter crying 
Savfed thee from burning flame. 

Mayst thou live to know and fear him, 
Trust and love him all thy days ; 

Then go dwell forever near him, 
See his face, and sing his praise. 

Isaac Watts. 

A ROCKING HYMN. 

Sweet baby, sleep ! what ails my dear, 
What ails my darling thus to cry? 

Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, 
To hear me sing thy lullaby. 

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Thou blessfed soul, what canst thou fear ? 

What thing to thee can mischief do ? 
Thy God is now thy Father dear. 

His holy spouse, thy mother too. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

While thus thy lullaby I sing, 

For thee great blessings ripening be ; 

Thine eldest brother is a king. 

And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; 

For whosoever thee offends 
By thy protector threaten'd are. 

And God and angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

When God with us was dwelling here. 
In little babes He took delight; 

Such innocents as thou, my dear. 
Are ever precious in His sight. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

A little infant once was He ; 

And strength in weakness then was laid 
Upon His virgin-motiier's knee, 

I'hat power to thee might be conveyed- 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

In this thy frailty and thy need, 

He friends and helpers doth prepare. 

Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed. 
For of thy weal they tender are. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet bab}', sleep. 

The King of kings, when He was born, 
Had not so much for outward ease ; 

By Him such dressings were not worn. 
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 
Where oxen lay, and asses fed ; 

Warm rooms we do to thee afford. 
An easy cradle or a bed. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustain 

Have purchased wealth, my babe, for 
thee ; 

And by His torments and His pain 
Thy rest and ease secured be. 

My baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



GERMAN CBADLE-SONG. 



303 



Thou hast, )fet more, to perfect this, 

A promise and an earnest got 
Of gaining everlasting bliss, 

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not: 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

George Wither. 



THE GRIEF OF CHILDHOOD. 

The tear, down childhood's cheek that flows. 
Is like the dew-drop on the rose ; 
When next the summer breeze comes by 
And waves the bush, the flower is dry. 
Won by their care, the orphan child 
Soon on his new protector smiled 
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair. 
Through his thick curls of fia.xen hair, 
But blithest laughed that cheek and eye. 
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh ; 
His native lays in Irish tongue 
To soothe her infant ear he sung, 
And primrose twined with daisy fair, 
To form a chaplet for her hair. 
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand. 
The children still were hand in hand. 
And good Sir Richard, smiling, eyed 
The early knot so kindly tied. 

RoKEBY, Canto VI. 

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 

Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade. 
Death came with friendly care. 

The opening bud to heaven conveyed. 
And bade it blossom there. 

DOMESTIC PEACE. 

Tell me on what holy ground 
May domestic peace be found — 
Halcyon daughter of the skies ! 
Far on fearful wings she flies, 
From the pomp of sceptered state. 
From the rebel's noisy hate, 
In a cottaged vale she dwells 



Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
Still around her steps are seen 
Spotless Honor's meeker mien, 
Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
Sorrow, smiling through her tears, 
And, conscious of the past employ, 
Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 



GERMAN CRADLE-SONG. 

Sleep on, my baby, sleep and rest, while day 

to dusk is turning. 
And o'er the sunset's rosy calm one great 

white star is burning. 
Their glooms against pale deeps of sky dark 

castle-walls are showing. 
And through the shadowy valley-land the 

lovely Rhine is flowing ! 

Oh, all the sweet babes in the bourg for soft 

repose are weary ; 
The sunshine only brings them joy, but night 

is grim and eerie ; 
And, oh, I know that all night long, where 

reeds and sedges quiver. 
The deadly Lorelei combs her hair beside the 

starlit river ! 

'Tis well through day for babes to play where 

sunbeams fling their lustre 
Amid the arbor's )-ellowing leaves and light 

the purple cluster ; 
But, oh, I know where suns are low and 

stealthy darkness follows. 
With fiery eyes and streaming locks the mad 

gnome haunts the hollows ! 

Oh, fair the river winds all day past towers 

and moss-grown churches. 
Past hamlets whence the fisher sails to draw 

the net he searches : 
But there like phantoms float all night, while 

shrill the owl rejoices. 
Enchantresses in plumes of swans that sing 

with angels' voices ! 





iOW, ones af OR a tim®, a n^^t °f faipie^ 
V/a? la a meadow 'D^atl^ a Wild PO<?e-tpee,- 

Cnd, oce® !:ip°i2 a time, tl^® Violet^ ela^bped 
i tl^i'M^ ap°ut2d .it one c^cilsl ^at^ely ^ee ; 
find, on(i<^ uf°'a a tim®, a tpo°p °feli\\dp«r2 
6ame dancira^ kv uf^n tl^e fl°W«py i^potinsl ; 
find, one® tJP°n a' time, tl^e r^e^t oF faipi®<?. 

Witl^ ^l^out^ °^ j°y ^^"^^ V/ondepmeDt, tl2e^ fojJBjl : 

^nd, oae® iip°t2 a tim®, tl^eip pappl® Wi^'Jlet^-, 
¥12® faipi®^ ^pp®as(, tl^afc ^l2imm®p®«l \n tl^® ^aa;- 
Clcd, oape uf>oa a. time, tb® c^^t fop^a^^irjij, 
■ ^'2®y '^'^'^ °l^^ tl2P°' tl2® \'iol®t^ evepy oae ; 
&Dd,:oaeB'u^°u a tim®, tf^eel^iypsD followed 
Witl^ btid l^alloo®^' al°n'^ tl^® meadoW ^P®er3; 
^Dd, one® iiipoD a tim®,tl2® faiPi®^ v'ai2i^l2®d 
^nd cevep mope could oqc of ■tl2®m la® ^eei2; 
^Dd, orje® apoB a tim®, tl2® el2ildpeu <^°u^lil tf^em 
F°p maRy a day, feat frtjitletj^ Wa^ tl^eip <^u^t 
'Fop. GDC® Lipoi2 a tim®, amid t!2e violet^', 
f i^ey ot2ly fouEd t!^® faipi®j' empiy B®^t, 









A CASTLE IN SPAIN. 



305 



r^ Casdc in Spairu,P% 




THE draggled lilies were beaten down 
As if by a prancing hoof ; 
The roses swayed and the warm rain came, 
Like the patter of pearls, on the roof. 

Up in the garret the darling sat, 

In her little gown of blue, 
With her lily cheeks and her rosebud lips. 

And dreamed as she loved to do. 



Bundles of herbs from the rafters hung ; 

There was many a quaint old chest, 
A cradle of oak and a spinning-wheel ; 

In the chimney a swallow's nest. 

The darling, she sat in a straight-backed chair 
With her face 'gainst the window pane, 

Her little hands folded across her lap ; 
And she builded her Castle in Spain. 



3o6 



A CASTLE IN SPAIN. 




And never a magic palace rose, 

In the days of the Moorish Kings, 
As fair as the Castle the darling built 
From her sweet imaginings. 



Rosy and green were the walls, like the heart 

Of a murmuring ocean-shell ; 
There were jewelled spires, and a slender tower 

With a swinging silver bell. 



A CASTLE IN SPAIN. 



307 




And up to the go!d-hasped door there ran, 

On a carven ivory stair, 
The darling herself, in rosy silk. 

With pearls in her yellow hair. 

Then the beautiful door swung open wide; 

And she entered a marble hall 
Where marble nymphs, with golden lamps 

Stood ranged against the wall. 



3ob 



A CASTLE IN SPAIN, 




S^S^ 



The darling danced like a puff o' down 

Over the marble floor, 
And she gleefully sped from hall to hall, 

And opened each golden door ; 



And chambers she found whose lofty 
walls 

With jewels were all acrust, 
With windows of pearl, and ivory floors, 

Scattered over with diamond-dust. 



And oft up a staircase rail she saw 
A flowering garland twist. 

With ruby lilies, and roses of gold, 
And myrtle of amethyst. 



( The south wind blew, on the garret-roof 
Fell faster the Summer rain.) 

A wonderful garden the darling found 
Around the Castle in Spain : 

Apple-branches all white with flowers, 

A hive of stingless bees, 
Robins, with nests of woven gold. 

Or. the boughs of the cherry-trees; 




A CASTLE IN SPAIN. 



309 




Lilies as tall as the darling's self, 
Of silver and gold and blue, 

Banks of primrose and mignonette, 
And violets wet with dew ; 

Poppies, with bees asleep in their cups, 

Tulips of purple and red, 
Honeysuckles and hiunming-birds, 

Rose-branches over her head : 



A velvet sward in an open space, 
A fountain of tinkling pearls ; 

And the darling herself in a violet gown, 
With hyacinths in her curls, 

With her apron full of roses and pearls, 

Singing a song so clear 
That the bees and the yellow butterflies 

Came flying round to hear. 



A CASTLE IN SPAIN: 



Then the darling danced down a flowery path 

Still singing her song so sweet, 
With hawthorne branches on either hand 

And crocuses under feet. 



And she found a beautiful blue-eyed prince. 

Asleep in a thicket dim, 
Caught in a bramble-rose which grew 

By magic over him. 







A CASTLE IN SPAIN. 




Thro' the leaves and tne roses she scarce could see And the poor little prince, if he chanced to stir 

His head with its flaxen curls, As he dreamed in his magic sleep, 

His rosy cheeks and his velvet coat, Was pierced by a thorn of the bramble-rose — 

With its buttons of milky pearl. The darling began to weep. 



LITTLE MAID BERTHA'S STORK, 




TURRET-BALCONY high in air 
On a castle grim Snd grand ; 
And little maid Bertha standing there, 
Feeding a stork from her hand. 

" O beautiful summer-bird 1 " she said, 

" Coming so sure to me 
From the wide white sands of the deser.t dead, 

Or the Holy Land over the sea ; 



" Tell me some of the wonderful things 

That you must certainly know 
Of the countries where you shut your wings 

And stay all the winter so ! 

L» 1. >":r-T"'-#i^"""Vfe-.^-^"";^-'J 




" Of the broken palaces by the banks 
Of the Nile, and the temples there 

That stand with columns in awful ranks 
So still in the silent air. 



" Have you made your nest on some monstrous 
arch — 

I've seen the pictures, you know — 
Where Pharaoh's soldiers used to march 

Out to battle, ages ago ? 

"Have you lit on the Sphinx's shoulder, dear? 

Did you learn any strange, old word 
That your grandfather Ibis used to hear, 

But that men have never heard ? 

" I believe the reason )'our bright-red beak 

Is dumb, is because they sealed 
Your bird-voice up, lest a note should speak. 

And their secrets be revealed. 

" Have you looked old Memnon in the face 

( Has he got any face ? ), or hid 
Your brood far up on some reachless place 

At the peak of a pyramid ? 

" Or, best of all, I would learn, sweet stork, 
Of the streets and the temple stairs 

Where the dear Lord Jesus used to walk. 
And the hills where He said his prayers. 

" Did you ever light where the Christ sat down, 
And the thousands below Him stood, 

While He spoke to the world from the mountain- 
crown 
His words of beatitude ? 



LITTLE MAID BERTHA'S STORK. 



313 



" Have you drunk from Jordan some blessed drop, 

Flown over Gennesareth ? 
Have you had a home on some pleasant top 

Of a house in Nazareth ? 

" Did you ever live in Jerusalem ? 

Have you seen the Sorrowful Way, 
Where the crowds rushed up, and He went with them, 

On the Crucifixion Day ? 




" I m sure you would stop on Olivet, 

Where the Palm Procession trod , 
Is the Saviour s footprint shining yet 

That he left, when He rose to God ? 

" Ah, you cannot answer one word of mine, 
My bird with the silent bill ! 

I'll wait and watch for some different sign 
You may bring or send me stil! ! 



3H 



LITTLE MAID BERTHA'S STORK. 



"And see ! I will hang about your throat 

This locket vvitli silver chain ; 
You shall carry in it the little note 

I have writ, when you go again. 

" I've begged the dear people where you may be, 

In the lands I have never seen, 
To care for you when you are far from me, 

And be kind, as I have been. 




"And perhaps some beautiful day next year. 
When you come on your northward track, 

And flap your wing at my window here. 
You may bring me a message back ! " 



I think there were tears in the sportsman's eyes, 

And his tone had a tremble, when 
He drew from the trinket that strange surprise, 

And read it to those rough men. 

" 'Twas a pitiful chance ! " spoke a comrade. 
" Yes ! " 

The answer came ruefully : 
" I think I would almost, sooner than this, 

It had been my hand ! " said he. 

They buried the bird in the hyacinths there. 

Under Mount Tabor's foot : 
Letter and locket they carried with care 

To the Consul in old Beiriit. 



" Fraulein Von Wildberg." A packet came 

One day to the castle gate. 
Bertha, the child, scarce knows her name 

Writ out in its titled state. 

An inner parcel. A letter. A stem 

Of dried blue hyacinth bells ; 
And somehow tender with breath of them 

The story the letter tells : — 

"Died at Mount Tabor. — Don't cry for me ' 

So runneth the gentle word ; 
" For the Man who once walked in Galilee 

Still cares for the child and bird." 



The winds blew sweet with the springtime smells 

Of grass, and blossom, and tree ; 
And hunters were out for the wild gazelles 

On the plains of Galilee. 

A troop of the swift, shy, graceful things 

Went suddenly flashing by. 
Like creatures skimming the earth with wings. 

Or lightnings crossing the sky. 

An aimless shot from a rifle rang : 

Some birds rushed overhead ; 
The gunner after his quarry sprang. 

For a great white stork fell dead. 

Ah, the little locket — the silver chain, 

That they crowded round to see ! 
Never may Bertha's bird again 

Go northward from Galilee ! 



There was bitter grief and sobbing awhile ; 

Then she paused, and lovingly 
Hung the locket about her neck, with a smile : 

" I will wear it always," said she. 

" And so it was best — if it were at all ; 

For I truly can understand 
If ever He watches the sparrow's fall. 

He would watch in the Holy Land ! " 

So sign and message came back to her — 

A burden of love and tears — 
Like a rose bound up with juniper, 

To sweeten and heal the years. 

Till for pain or gladness she had but this: 
" All Cometh from One Good Hand ; 

I know that the earth and our hearts are Hia, 
And both are his Holy Land ! " 




A WONDER STORY. 



OUR TRAMP.— TURKEY-TAIL BROOMS. 



317 



OUR TRA MP. 




ALL of you people who like to be told 
Of beings heroic, or daring, or bold, 
Here is a lale of a dear little scamp, 
Known in our household as Fulton the Tramp I 

Why ? Well, he's tramping from morning to night, 
Up-stairs and down-stairs, to left and to right, 
You'd think him a soldier patrolling a camp, . 
And always on duty, this dear little tramp ! 

Tired? No, never! He'll climb and he'll fall, 
Raid through the dining-room, march through the 

hall, 
Mount up the stair with his stampety-stamp, 
Like a patent machine with a valvular tramp. 

At six in the morning he's out of his crib 
And tramping by contract, now this is no fib ; 
At six in the night by the light of the lamp 
He's still on the go, so we call him the tramp. 

He's brave as he's bonny ! His merry black eyes 
Just twinkle a moment with tears when he cries ; 
I really think neither colic nor cramp 
Could ruffle his temper, this jolly wee tramp. 



FULTON THE TRAMP. 



But then he's a thief ; for he enters our hearts, 
Steals love and steals kisses, then slyly departs ! 
So we'll lock him up close where he cannot decamp, 
And keep him forever ! our darling, the tramp ! 



TURKEY-TAIL BROOMS. 



By Clara G. Dolliver. 



IN Rome, the grand old city, 
Close by the palace walls. 
The famous fountain of Trevi 

Tumbles and grumbles and brawls ; 
Its water-nymphs up on tiptoe, 
To peep in the palace walls, 



Seeming to smile at the clatter. 
And longing to add to the patter 

Of musical waterfalls. 
An echo for Domenico, 

Who sings and whistles and calls ; 
" Turkey-tail brooms ! turkey-tail brooms ! 



3'S 



TURKEY-TAIL BROOMS. 



Please will you buy my turkey-tail brooms ? 

For brushing your rooms, 

Your cobwebs and glooms, 
There's nothing so fine as my turkey-tail brooms ! " 

lie is tall and straight and slender. 

Gifted with nameless grace ; 
The dream of an old Greek sculptor 

Is pressed on his classic face ; 
His smile would beguile an angel, 

To hovering near the place. 
What poor weak mortal, meeting 
Those dark eyes' soft entreating, 

Could go her way in peace, 
Nor feel a wild temptation 
To buy and buy apace : 
" Turkey-tail brooms ! turkey-tail brooms ! 
Please will you buy my turkey-tail brooms ? 
For brushing your rooms. 
Your cobwebs and glooms. 
There's nothing so fine as my turkey-tail brooms ! " 

Out from the sunless alleys 

With little bare brown feet, 
The children of Father Trevi, 

Troop to the open street ; 
They are far from clean and wholesome, 

As Rome is far from neat ; 
But their laugh is clear and ringing, 
And their fresh bird-voices singing, 

Make music strangely sweet, 
When they join with Domenico 
To whistle and entreat : 
" Turkey-tail brooms ! turkey-tail brooms 
Please will )fOu buy my turkey-tail brooms ? 
For brushing your rooms, 
Your cobwebs and glooms. 
There's nothing so fine as my turkey-tail brooms ! " 

They all have heard his story. 

And simple though it be. 
It touches the hearts of children, 

And they love him tenderly. 
Far out on the wild Campagna 

He dwells with sisters three ; 
He dwells with his blind old mother, 
And his brave young crippled brother, 

And none can sell but he ; 



But their hands are always busy, 
And they ask no charity, 

While their loving Domenico 
Can troll out merrily : 




" Turkey-tail brooms ! turkey-tail brooms ! 
Please will you buy my turkey-tail brooms.? 

For brushing your rooms. 

Your cobwebs and glooms, 
There's nothing so fine as my turkey-tail brooms ! ' 




<>%^a-n.vS*^ t/r: ^yv^.f*-:-T>^ /&i<s*^ 



PROUDLY placed among her meadows, 
With the Pegnitz winding near, 
Proudest of all German cities — 
Nuremberg, without her peer. 

Nuremberg the free and mighty ; 

Nuremberg, whose busy hand 
" Goeth," saith her ancient rhymster," 

" Far and wide through every land." 



Vainly Waldstein's cannon thundered 
'Gainst the city, tower-walled. 

Vainly hurled he his battalions, 
Vainly for surrender called. 

But her people died by thousands 
In the close beleaguered town, 

And her women prayed while swiftly 
Ran the tears their cheeks adown. 

O the horror ! O the anguish ! 

O the bitter, bitter cry 
Of the orphan and the widow 

In that land of Germany ! 

After thirty years of struggle. 
Thirty years of bloody strife, 

Cities sacked, and starving peoples, 
Nuremberg came back to life 






Once more in her narrow highways 
Fearless children laughed and played 

Once more from her oriel windows 
Looked the happy-hearted maid 

Then the Prince, th' imperial envoy, 

Piccolomini, outspoke : 
" We will have a day of feasting, 

O my fasting burgher-folk ! 

" Very fit that here, it seemeth. 
Here in Nuremberg the old. 

First of all our loyal cities 

Wherein news of peace is told, 

" Very fit that blazing bonfire. 
Booming cannon, chiming bell. 

With their tongues of fire and iron 
Blessed years of peace foretell." 



As the Prince, so said the people. 

Glad they gathered on that day — 
July day — in sixteen hundred 

Fifty — mark the year, I pray. 



For from ashes of war's fires 

Smoldering then upon the earth. 

Phoenix-like, the German Nation 
Dates her happy birth. 



320 




Gladly forth from every quarter, 
Soldier, burgher, all outpour, 

Marching in strait ranks and serried, 
Marching on from door to door ; 

Bearing silken standards, crimson, 
Gold, of Nurembergan blue 

Famous as the Tyrian purple, 
— As 'tis told I tell it you — 



None ? No — think you little children 
Failed to lend their piquant grace 

To their country's pageant ? Doubter ! 
They too had their time and place. 

In among the moving column, 
Heads erect and eyes intent. 

Gallantly, most gallantly, 

Marched the Cock-Horse Regiment ! 



Bearing banks of spears uplifted, 

Treading sturdily alway. 
Guild on guild, the cobbler, blacksmith ■ 

None were wanting on that day. 



Clad in royal Genoa velvets. 

Ostrich plumes, and Flanders lace, 

Gems that sparkled as they rode by 
— Children of patrician race 



Side by side with peasants sturdy, 
Each boy waving with a toss 

Higli in air his cutlass tiny, 
Each upon his hobby-Iiorse. 




So on swept the grand procession 
Past the castle where now stands 

As then stood the lofty linden 
Set by Kunigunde's hands ; 

Past the house where Diirer painted, 
Where with patient skill he wrought, 

Drew his wondrous " Burgomaster," 
Truth and reverence in his thought ; 



(There still stands his ancient tombstone 

Emigravit carved thereon ; 
" Gone, not dead," the legend runneth — 

Nuremberg's own dearest son.) 

Past the high and stately Rath-Haus, 
With its dungeons dark and deep, 

With its dreadful torture-chamber, 
Torture that did murder sleep ; 

Past the peasants' well-beloved — 
" Little Goose-man " is his name — 

Flowing fountain, geese and goose-man, 
Still beloved, and known to fame. 




323 




So again in later summer, 

Proudly, as before, they went; 

Banners flying, steeds a-prancing, 
Marched the Cock-Horse Regiment. 



On the obverse — ah ! how proudly 
Went up each head with a toss 

As the eyes of each boy fell on 
Himself on his hobby-horse ! 



At the Red Horse Hostel halting, 

Piccolomini the Prince 
Gave to each a silver medal. 

For them cast and graven since 



Vivat Fcrdinando III ! — 'twas 
Thus thereon the legend read ; 

Long may live the Roman E7npire ! 

— Empire long, now long since dead. 



Last they stood there ; and on one side, 

In the silver bedded fine, 
Austria's eagle, double-headed — 

Empire's signet — they saw shine. 



So with cheers and loud huzza-ings, 
Heads erect and eyes intent,' 

On their prancing steeds away then 
Marched the Cock-Horse Regiment. 



J-r 




324 



THE BABY IN THE LIBRARY. 



323 



AN ASTRONOMICAL OBSERVATION, 

(For Ralph.') 

By Mrs. Whiton-Stone. 

"W THAT'S the transit of Venus?" questioned a child, 
V V With a queer little smile in his wondering eyes ; 
*' It is not very cloudy, or windy, or wild. 

But every one seems to be watching the skies." 



"What's the transit of Venus? — Sweet," I replied, 

" When you're grown up, and asked what you've known to be done, 
You can answer, one winter when you were a child, 

That Venus spent part of a day with the sun." 



THE BABY IN THE LIBRARY. 



Edward D. Anderson. 



WITHIN these solemn, book-lined walls. 
Did mortal ever see 
A critic so unprejudiced. 
So full of mirthful glee ? 



At times she takes a spiteful turn. 
And pommels, with her fists, 

De Quincey, Jeffrey, and Carlyle, 
And other essayists. 



Just watch her at that lower shelf ; 

See, there she's thumped her nose 
Against the place where Webster stands 

In dignified repose. 



And, when her wrath is fully roused 
And she's disposed for strife. 

It almost looks as if she'd like 
To take Macaulay's Life. 



Such heavy books she scorns ; and she 

Consideres Vapereau, 
And Beeton, too, though full of life, 

Quite stupid, dull and slow. 



Again, in sympathetic mood. 

She gayly smiles at Gay, 
And punches Punch, and frowns at Sterne 

In quite a dreadful way. 



She wants to take a higher flight, 

Aspiring little elf ! 
And on her mother's arm at length 

She gains a higher shelf. 



In vain the Sermons shake their heads ; 

She does not care for these. 
But catches, with intense delight, 

At all the Tales she sees. 



But, oh ! what liberties she takes 
With those grave, learned men; 

Historians, and scientists. 
And even " Rare old Ben ! " 



Where authors chance to meet her views, 

Just praise they never lack; 
To comfort and encourage them, 

She pats them on the back. 




y, /Zaoo^ 



THE Sissiton-Wahpeton Santa Sioux Indians, 
and a tribe of the Chippewas, had cher- 
ished an unpleasant feeling toward one another 
during many years. The Sioux always spoke of 
the Chippewas as being black-hearted — ■ that is 
deceitful; while the latter called the Sioux "old 
Squaws," meaning to cast a reflection upon their 
reputation for braverv. In fact the two tribes were 
at sword's-points — or rather at tomahawk's-points. 

If one or two Chippewas wandered forth, and 
by some ill-luck met a party of Sioux, the Chippe- 
was never returned, and on the other hand, when 
a large party of Chippewas came across a few 
Sioux, the latter did not live to tell the tale. 

It was really inconvenient for both tribes to have 
affairs in this state, for two reasons : The Chippe- 
Tvas had formerly been accustomed to obtain their 
ponies from the Sioux, who brought them from be- 
yond the Missouri, and now their stock of ponies 
liad run very low — so low, in fact, that some of 
the most ancient and aristocratic chieftains were 
obliged to travel on foot ; and the Sioux had for- 
merly obtained their finest beadwork from the skil- 
ful Chippewas who, in this line, are unexcelled — 
even the ornaments of the artistic Yanktonde are 
thrown in the shade by the Chippewa broidery. 
Therefore the tribe often talked of peace and by 
many it was heartily desired. 

326 



Finally, after various attempts, it was decided 
that the desired result should be brought about in 
the following manner : a Sioux messenger should 
be sent to the camp of the enemy with a few gifts 
and many promises, and he was to invite the Chiefs, 
Braves, Headmen and Warriors to a " Grand 
Peace Meet " at the Sioux Camp. This " Peace 
Meet," at which I was present, by the way, took 
place in Dakota. 

As little Joe De Marras, a mixed-blood — one 
eighth French — had among his wives a Chip- 
pewa squaw, and as he had occasionally, in com- 
pany with this wife, visited her relations, always 
returning in safety, and as he was almost the only 
Sioux who understood the Chippewa language, he 
was now chosen for this important mission. As a 
diplomat " Little Joe " proved a grand success. 

His Chippewa father-in-law gave a big dance in 
honor of his visit and other dances followed ; in 
fact a series of very elegant entertainments were 
given in the most approved Chippewa style, and at 
all these different soirees the Sioux embassador 
carried a bundle of small sticks about as large as 
lead pencils. Each stick, as was well understood, 
represented a promise of a pony. These he pre- 
sented to different chiefs. Of course the recipi- 
ents were only too anxious to immediately form a 
party, accept the Sioux invitation, and go right 



A GRAND PEACE MEET, 



327 



over and claim the promised ponies ; in short the 
strongest feelings of amity and companionship per- 
vaded the entire Chippewa Camp. One of the 
Chiefs even adopted " Little Joe." This is done 
by making a handsome present and requiring the 
recipient to join the family circle and call the donor 
" father," and if there is a spare daughter she is 
often married to the new son. 

The Diplomat returned in 
great triumph to the Sioux. 
He was laden with most ele- 
gant Chippewa beadwork, 
carved pipes, otter skins, and 
an additional wife. 

Of course many preliminary 
councils and meetings hid to 
take place. Six Chippewas 
came over 
to the Sioux 
Camp, and 
after three 
days 



the inaugural day of 
" The Grand Peace 
Meet," was 
agreed upon, 




consulting the Medicine Men of both tribes. 

The Sioux, however, could not, it seems, entirely 
do away with their suspicions of these old enemies; 
and on the day preceding the one appointed for 
the ceremonial an order was issued by the Head 
Chief and rapidly promulgated by his mounted 
scouts at nightfall. All throiigh that night could 
be heard the galloping of ponies over the prairie, 
the dragging of pole 
tents over the trails, and 
the squeaking of the In- 
dian wagons, but not the 
sound of a 
voice. In the 
mornmg the 



THr IJFPARTLRr OF IV, 



3^S 



A GRAND PEACE MEET. 




"^m-,.. 




_M^^ 



mysteriou s 
movements 
were ex- 
plained. 
All of the 

Sioux tepees which had been scattered among the 
ravines and on the slopes had been gathered to- 
gether, during the night, in a double row and were 
now systematically arranged in the form of an 
ellipse, the wagons standing as a sort of breast- 
work around the outside. 

At an early hour every one was astir in the 
Sioux encampment and in a state of great excite- 
ment ; for the Chippe- 
was, according to the 
reports of the scouts, 
who had been on the 
lookout all night, were 
within a few miles, in 
large numbers, and 
heavily armed. 

The Sioux Chiefs and 
Braves were already on 
the road, while I was 
still wrestling with my 
pony, who seemed to 
have thoroughly caught 
the prevailing nervous- 
ness and would persist 
in striking out vigorous- 
ly with his hind legs 
while the girts were be- 
ing tightened, and then 
he insisted on starting 




I WAS STILL WRESTLING 



THE CHIPPEWAS AND THE SIOUX MEET. 

before he was mounted. The Indians mount from 
the right side, and my attempts to mount on the 
left seemed to worry him. When things were 
finally arranged, he started with great abruptness 
and began racing at breakneck speed to join the 
band who were now a good distance ahead. It 
seemed a long time before I was able to slide down 
from his neck and find the saddle. 

It was noticeable that the Sioux were thoroughly 
armed, though their blankets were so arranged as 
to conceal their weapons as much as possible. 
We rode in no regular order, except the Headmen 
were gathered around the Chief. Not a voice was 
heard. We followed no 
track or trail that was 
discernible to the ordi- 
nary observer, simply 
keeping the scouts in 
sight who were always 
some half-mile in ad- 
vance. 

After about an hour's 
ride, the scouts suddenly 
made a signal. We 
halted and one of them 
rode swiftly back and 
held a whispered consul- 
tation with the Head- 
men. Meantime the 
remainder of the scouts 
had dismounted and 
placed themselves be- 
hind their ponies. Sig- 
nals were agaui made, 



WITH MV PONY. 



A GRAND PEACE MEET. 



and we advanced slowly. Now, for the first time 
during the ride everyone began talking; but only 
for a moment — evidently the Chippewas were in 
sight, but to eyes unaccustomed to gazing across 
the prairie they were not visible. 

Suddenly a mass of moving objects could be 
seen above the prairie grass. Again there was a 
halt, while a dozen Headmen advanced and joined 
our scouts. Then we again slowly and cautiously 
advanced. 

Soon the Chippewas were distinctly visible ; 
thev, too, had sent a small party in advance. The 
reports which our scouts had brought in the morn- 
ing were undoubtedly much exaggerated. The 
Chippewas, who were all on foot excepting a few 
Chiefs, were not over one hundred in number, and 
their weapons if they carried any were not to be 
seen. No doubt, however, they were packed in the 
wagons around which most of them were gathered. 

Peace-signs were made by both parties. Then 
we all halted. Our scouts dismounted, and the 
advance-guard from both sides then made a great 
show of laying down their knife-sheaths, and 
everything else which they carried that looked at 
all war-like, and then advanced to within a few 
rods of each other. 



pipe and both took a few whiffs, after 
which they advanced with it toward 
two Chippewas who were coming 
forward also carrymg a big 
calumet. The four 
met, shook hands, 
then tremendous 
yells of appro- 
bation were 
given by both 
parties, blank- 
ets and pipes 
were ^\ p v e d 
above their 




THE BIG CALUMET. 



heads, the ponies pranced and neighed, and the 
greatest excitement prevailed. After this exchange 
of pipes, the remainder of the advance 
guard from each side met, and 




THE TWO CHIPPEWAS ARE ESCORTED ALONG THE SIOUX RANKS. 



Nowtheybegantotalk. A short speech was made was great shaking of hands, passing of pipes and 
on each side. Then two of the Sioux lighted a big renewed yells. The Sioux then came back with 



330 



A GRAND PEACE MEET. 



the two Chippewas — the bearers of the pipe of 
peace — while the Sioux pipe-bearers were con- 
ducted to the Chippewas. 

An order was then swiftly passed, and the whole 
band of Sioux were arranged in two long lines, and 
the two Chippewas were escorted along the ranks, 
shaking hands with everyone, while the big Chip- 
pewa calumet was passed rapidly from mouth to 
mouth, each Indian taking one long whiff ; nearly 
the same ceremony was taking place among the 
Chippewas. 

A small party of Sioux next went with presents 
for the Chippewa Chiefs, while some Chippewas 
also came over with gifts of beautiful beadwork 
for the Sioux. Then both the Sioux and Chippe- 
wa Head-Chiefs, with their Headmen, slowly ad- 
vanced to within a few yards of each other, and 
long speeches followed, interrupted by yells of 
applause, and cries of " wa'ste ! wa'ste ! (good! 
good ! ") After this, the two Head Chiefs walked 
up to each other, and shook hands. At this the 
shouts became deafening, pipes were brought, and 
they smoked and exchanged ; ponies were led up 





were runnms 



^^ and they mount- 
ed and rode side 
by side. 

Then the en- 
tire assemblage 
started back for 
the Sioux camp. 
The inarch was 
rather slow, as 
nearly all the vis- 
itors were on foot ; but swift 
messengers were sent ahead, 
and when we arrived the 
' Ca'^_p was in holiday attire ; 

red flannel and bright calico 
were waving from the poles 
of the tepees, the children 
about shouting and laughing, while 



the squaws were busy bringing water and wood, and 
tending the fires which were burning in all direc- 
tions over which were cooking big pots of meat. 

Two very large tepees had been placed side by 
side, so that the covering of one lapped over upon 
the other, making it to look almost like one big 
tent ; this was to represent the union of the Sioux 
and the Chippewas. A large space, enclosed by 
bushes stuck into the ground, made a kind of av- 
enue leading to these tents, and into this enclosure 
the visitors were ushered, and while the chiefs of 
each tribe took possession of the tents, the re- 
mainder seated themselves around the sides and 
pipes were passed amidst much talking and laugh- 
ter. 

Now I noticed for the first time that there was a 
little boy with the Chippewas. He was dressed like 
a warrior ; his clothes were covered with bead' 



A GRAND PEACE MEET. 



331 



work, two little embroidered pouches hung from 
his shoulders, a brilliant bead sash was around his 
waist, bands of beadwork with long fringed ends 
were tied below his knees, and beautiful moccasins 
were on his feet. While the others were seating 
themselves, the boy rushed out toward a lot of 
ponies, and he seemed to be perfectly happy in 
simply watching or walking round among them. 
He evidently was as anxious for a "Suktanka" 
(pony) as any of the Chippewas. Little Sioux 
children gathered around him, admiring his cos- 
tume, but ihey seemed rather shy, and their lan- 
guages being entirely different their acquaintance 
progressed slowly until one of them brought up an 
old pony, and then four, yes, four •' little Injuns " 
climbed on — and the happy little Chippewa was one 
of them. They at once began shouting and kicking 



front legs, and raised his hind feet as if he were 
trying to kick the sun out of the sky, and he con- 
tinued this motion, throwing his head down and 
his hind legs up, until the " four little Injuns " 
were scattered far and wide in the prairie grass. 

It was evidently with feelings of great pleasure, 
judging from their smiling countenances, that the 
Indians saw the squaws approach with the big ket- 
tles of steaining soup. Though the menu was short 
and the courses few, the dinner seemed wholly sat- 
isfactory ; the most important point with an Indian 
is not variety, but quantity. The soup was poured 
into tin plates and dippers ; a few had spoons ; but 
most of them drank from their dish. After the 
soup to which all were helped many times, came 
potatoes, boiled meat, and a kind of hot bread or 
pan-cake cooked in a spider. During the dinner 




their heels into the old pony's ribs, the children 
at the pony's heels joining with sticks and yells, 
and it was all immensely jolly for everyone except- 
ing poor old pony himself who was being driven 
round at a lively pace. Suddenly, however, he 
performed a favorite trick with Indian ponies ; that 
is, he " bucked " — he lowered his head between his 



very little conversation was carried on, but when 
the meal had been finished, the Chiefs of the two 
tribes, who had been carefully waited upon under 
the big tents, came forth into the enclosure, and 
long speeches followed. The Chippewas expressed 
their love and admiration for the Sioux in the most 
flattering terms, and referred to their well-known 



33- 



A GRAND PEACE MEET. 



bravery with intense admiration. Tlie Sioux re- 
plied in speeches more flattering if possible. 
Then began an old Indian game. The squaws 




WHAT BEFELL "FOUR LITTLE 



brought in dippers filled with hot fat from the fry- 
ing pans, and the Indians would dare each other to 
see who would drink the most, ahd presents would 
be made by the one who failed. The same idea was 
carried out in regard to eating hot baked potatoes. 

When this was over, some of the Chippewas 
pulled their blankets over their heads and laid 
down in the sun to sleep, while the others, for 
the first time, moved about the Camp, wandering 
finally towards the ponies. Then discussions arose 
in regard to speed, and races followed. 

At sunset not a Chippewa was visible ; they all 
had disappeared in or around their wagons, where 
their tents were pitched. They were industriously 
painting themselves for the big dance which was to 
begin at moonrise. The Sioux were engaged in the 
same artistic employment. For the first time in 
twenty-four hours there was a period of quietness. 

It was now rapidly becoming 
dark, the squaws had finished ,k. ^ 



their work, the children were gathered into the 
tents, the ponies had wandered into the ravine, 
and even the dogs seemed subdued. But as soon 
as the edge of the moon ap- 
peared above the prairie, a 
few dark forms passed noise- 
lessly towards the dancing- 
grounds. Then the Indian 
drum broke the silence ; 
and from that moment all 
through that night, and 
through the next day, and 
the following night, that 
drum was not laid down for 
a moment. 

For this was to be a famous 
dance, a dance long to be 
remembered. The Sioux had 
determined that the Chippe- 
was should be duly impressed 
by the magnificence of their 
reception, and the dance was 
the principal feature. At 
the sound of the drum it 
seemed as if the Indians 
came by magic ; it seemed as if they must have 
sprung up from the ground. None seemed to be 
hurrying, but suddenly you could see them on all 
sides, silently moving towards the 
dancing enclosure. They sat down in 
a large circle around the music. 
Then the players raised their 
voices in one long yell, and gave 
the drum a sudden and severe 
pounding — immediately a tall 
frightfully-painted savage drop- 
pejd his blanket and 
with a yell sprang 
into the centre 
of the circle, = 
brandishing 
a tomahawk 







PAINTING FOR THE BIG DANCH* 



A GRAND PEACE MEET. 



333 



ornamented with a long siring of feathers. Oth- 
ers in fantastic costumes — and some in no cos- 
tume except paint and red flannel — gathered 
around this leader. The squaws on the outside of 
the enclosure struck into a wild chant, the dancers 
began their antics, and the moon, and the fires, 
which had been started near the circle, threw a 
weird light on the scene which seemed anything 
but peaceful. 

After the first dance a regular beating was still 
kept up on the drum, while many of the Sioux 
withdrew to return presently with little sticks. At 
this the Chippewa guests smiled with renewed 
vigor — they well knew each stick represented a 
promise of a pony. 

The head Sioux chief then arose, made a brief 
speech, and threw two sticks into the lap of the 
Chippewa chief. Great shouts and a regular tor- 
nado on the drum followed. Then I-te-wa-kan-hdi- 
o-ta (Thunder Face), a Sioux Brave, danced around 
the circle, hesitating in front of different Indians, 
finally throwing a stick to a happy Chippewa. 
Shouts of applause again went up and the dance 
was renewed. 

Thus it went all night ; giving ponies, receiving 
beadwork, dancing, speeches, and eating — no 
cessation. Occasionally some of the dancers would 
quietly steal away and take a nap, but the circle 
always looked full ; while some rested others 
danced. 

And so it went on for two nights and' one day. 
On the morning of the second day, I awoke with 



an idea that I had saddled a little stick and had 
been riding wildly through an Indian village pur- 
sued by painted savages, also mounted on sticks. 




THE LEADER OF THE DANCE. 



In the camp all was quiet. Over the rolling 
prairie a party of horsemen were rapidly disap- 
pearing. It was the Chippewas on their returo 
home. All was now peace between the tribes. 




I-TE-WA-KAN-HDI-O-TA. 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 



I WONDER if most of us are not naturally fond 
of the water, semi-amphibious ; whether, ever 
since we were big enough to- sail shingles in a 
watering trough, or to tumble into the brook 
where we had set up our water-wheels, we have 
not had times of longing to be either in or on the 
water. 

I incline to think that this natural love of a 
stream to play and fish and swim and ride in, has 
had much to do in determining some great things 
— the site of the world's big cities, say ; for when 
men had only tents or huts to shelter them, they 
were quite sure to erect these by the bank of a 
stream which should give them water to drink and 
use, to serve as a highway, and to yield a supply of 
fish-food. In the course of centuries, the dwell- 
ings became better and more numerous as people 
increased and developed their faculties, and pres- 
ently there was a town ; and, after more time and 
growth, a great city. Then the banks of the 
river, once green and beautiful, where the willows 
had spread their branches over the water, gave 
place to heavy walls and stone embankments; 
and instead of the hollow log in which the half- 
naked natives had paddled about, came puffing 
and splashing steamboats and barges fetching 
goods brought up the river from ships from over 
seas. 

All this has happened to the river Seine, and to 
the hamlet of Lutetia which the Parisii built upon 
the island of La Cite. 

My earliest view of the Seine at Paris had for 
its foreground a fine array of hopeful fishermen 
of all ages waiting with seriousness and patience 
for the first tremulous indication of a " bite." To 
judge by their numbers and their determined air 
one would suppose that this was a great industry, 
that the citizens of Paris were still largely depen- 
dent for food upon the fish caught in the river. 
Upon the wall skirting the quai, upon the steam- 
boat landings, in punts, upon the lavoirs, or float- 
ing laundries, or standing ankle-deep in water by 
the piers of bridges, in or on every available place, 
were tlie fishermen. Do they ever catch anything ? 



"Well," said a man who generally tells the truth. 
" a fellow in the reign of Clovis caught a carp, and 
ever since they have been hoping to take another.'' 

It was told me, too, how there had once been a 
man who after waiting for a long time felt a nib- 
ble and pulling up his rod with a great jerk, 
threw a shining fish high into the air, saw him fall 
off the hook with a splash into the water again, 
and was so excited that in his despair he plunged 
in after it and would have drowned if his friends 
had not pulled him out. 

One might do worse, however, than to jump 
into the Seine, provided the day be sultry and you 




MY FIRST VIEW 

OF THE SEINE. 



make your leap into one of the better class of 
swimming baths. Not far from the Pont de la 
Concorde is one of the best of the bathing estab- 
lishments for men. You descend from the quai; 



534 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 



335 



a stone way leads to the door. You pay a franc 
to enter, and a sou procures you a towel, bathing 
drawers, and a long cloak of white cotton in which 
you wrap when you come out of the water. You 
find yourself upon a platform six or eight feet in 
width extending around a tank perhaps three 




FREQUENTERS OF THE SWIMMING BATHS. 

hundred feet long, and a hundred wide. Over 
your head runs a gallery as wide as the platform, 
and from both platform and gallery open doors to 
scores of bathing boxes, to one of which you are 
assigned. Your valuables you leave at the office 
receiving a brass check in return and presently 
you join the other bathers to take your plunge. 
You notice the company about you. There are 
some very good looking heads and intellectual 
ones, some are military officers, others look like 
students and clerical men. Flights of steps lead 
from the platform into the water for the con- 
venience of those who do not wish to dive, and 
numerous signs along the edge of the tank inform 
the bathers as to the depth of the water, that 
those unable to swim may not venture beyond 
places of safety. At one end of the tank where 
the water' is deepest is an elevated stand ap- 
proached by a flight of steps, and from this some 
gay, athletic young fellows are diving. Near the 
diving-stand is the cafe; and here bathers 
wrapped in their white cloaks lounge and smoke, 
or take their coffee or absinthe. A cooler and 
more refreshing place cannot be found in Paris 
on a hot summer afternoon than this bath-house 
anl it is a popular resort. 

But if you do not care to spend a franc or 
twenty cents, there are many places where you 
can get a bath for less. Fifty centimes (half a 
franc), or even four sous, will buy one, and you 



may find your company quite as interesting as in a 
more expensive pl-ace. 

Like the bath-houses, the lavoirs, or floatins; laun- 
dries, occupy the river largely. Built upon heavy- 
bateaux these laundries rise two stories in height, 
and each is a humming hive of laundresses. In 
the lower story you can always see them washing 
the clothes and beating them with flat wooden 
paddles. Wo to your buttons when your cloth- 
ing is drawn out of the water (which is always 
clean, always momently renewed) to come under 
the club of a muscular laundress I , But somehow 
they do manage to bring your linen back whole, 
although you think to see them at work that no 
garment could stand the treatment. 

In the story above, there appear to be rooms 
for drying and ironing ; and I think there must be 
sleeping-rooms also in some of them for those 
that have the care of the floating washtubs. There 
are snowy muslin curtains held back by bright rib- 
bons, and a plant in blossom stands upon the 
window-ledge. 

On the right bank of the river, near the Pont 
de la Concorde and 
opposite the bath- 
house where we 
have taken our re- 
freshing dip, is 
another bathing 
place. But 
here the 
bathers 
pay no 
fees, wear 
no bathing 
dresses 




A LAUNDRY ON THE SEINE. 

have no absinthe or cigarettes. They are dragged 
from the bath, sometimes driven away with blows, 
the French horses are as fond of the bath as their 
masters, and the space enclosed by a boom of logs 
chained together which is allotted to them, is al- 



-^-fi 



YAkVUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 




ways alive with splashing, shiny animals. At that 
point the river does not reach the embankment, 
and from the base of the wall the bed is paved 
with square stone blocks so that the horses have a 
good and sure foothold as far out as they are able 
to wade. It is a lively scene, very picturesque. 
Some of the horses are ridden into the water by 
men whose red caps show them to be soldiers, 
others have been taken from between the shafts 
rof wagons and carts in the street above, and their 
'drivers in blouses, or shirts, or naked to the waist, 
ride them splashing and floundering about, men 
.and horses equally wet. 

The famous Pont de la Concorde which forms 
lihe background to this animated scene is one of 
the many great 
highways across 
the river, per- 
haps the most 
•densely throng- 
ed of all. It was 
built in part of 
stone from the 
ruins of the old 
Bastile prison, and it is some satisfaction to a re- 
flective person to know that the stones which once 
confined the victims of despotism now serve the 
public good in a much happier manner. A great 




THE VENDER OF ASSES' MILK. 



stream of peaceful travel flows over them night 
and day. Densely crowded omnibuses, fiacres, or 
cabs, with drivers in red vests and shiny hats ; now 
a clattering dragoon, or a cuirassier, his breast- 
plate and helmet sparkling in the sun, the long 
horsehair crest sweeping down his back. 

Then a pastoral sound greets the ear, and the 
pan-pipes of a vender of 
goat's milk give notice of 
the approach of the pict- 
uresque goatherd driving 
his lop-eared goats in front 
of him. They dodge the 
swiftly-moving cabs and 
drays without seeming to 
notice them, and form a 
striking rural bit in a bust- 
ling city picture. Some- 
times however these pan- 
pipes announce, not the coming of the goatherd, 
but the drove of she-asses which are driven through 
the streets and stopped at door after door to deliver 
the milk fresh to those who have a fancy for this 
beverage. 

Here comes the coco-man with a pagoda-shaped 
tank strapped like a chemical fire-extinguisher 
upon his shoulders. He tinkles his metal cups to 
attract customers and like Simple Simon you can 




THE COCO-MAN. 




THE FLOWER MARKET, NEAR NOTRE DAME. 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 



339 




taste his " ware " for a penny. The drink is a 
sort of liquorice water, not very cold, yet quite re- 
freshing, I have watched the coco-man approach 
a group of perspiring worlcmen on a hot day and 
one after another they would leave their work and 
take their penny-drink which must have been 
much better for them than their sour wine, beer or 
ice water. 

Extending along the river-side eastward from 
the Place de la Concorde are the Gardens of the 
Tuileries. The famous old palace is gone but 
the Gardens remain, the popular gathering-place 
of white-capped 
nurses with the 
children, and 
red-legged sol- 
diers to keep 
them company. 
On pleasant af- 
ternoons you 
may come here 
and listen to a 
THE dogs' barber. conccrt by the 

band of the Garde Republicaine. You may hire 
the privilege of sitting in an iron armchair for four 
cents, or a chair without arms for two cents, and 





buy a programme to a very good concert for two 
cents more ; so that four or six cents really gives 
you an excellent musical entertainment for an 
hour, enjoyed in comfort. 

The walk along the quai, passing the side of the 
Louvre and bringing us to the old Pont Neuf is 
full of suggestions to any 
student of history ; but we 
are merely walking along the 
river to-day. See that crowd 
upon the quai close by the 
end of the old Pont Neuf. 
" What is the trouble here, hot weather trim. 
monsieur ? " We stretch up to gaze over some head 
and shoulders. Ah, a man is clipping a poodle. 
His assistant sits upon the ground and holds the 
dog across his knees, grasping the two fore paws 
in one hand and the hind paws in the other while 
the sculptor in hair clips the astonished but unre- 
sisting animal leaving a moustache upon his face, 
rings about his ankles, a funny collar about his 
neck, a round tuft upon the tip of his tail, and per- 
haps some other odd patches upon various parts 
of his body. Another dog is waiting for his turn, 
and sits shivering pitifully as he regards the oper- 
ation upon the dog already in the barber's hands. 



34° 



THRO UGH THE HEART OE PARIS. 



This old bridge, the Pont Neuf, we have heard 
of suice we first heard of Paris ; no story of Paris- 
ian life is complete without some mention of it. It 
is more than a 
thousand feet 
long, the centre 
of it touching 
the end of the 
Island of La 
Cite. It is three 
hundred years 
old and upon 
that part which 
rests upon the 
island is an 
equestri an 
statue of Henry 
IV., its builder. 

There is an- 
other gathering 
of people here, leaning over the parapet, looking 
at something going on in the open space upon the 
end of the island below them. There is a beating 




A REHEARSAL. — FRENCH SCHOOL-BOVs' DRUM-AND-BUGLE CORPb. 




BOOK-STALLS ON THE QUAI MALAQUAIS. 

cf drums, a blowing of trumpets. Getting a chance 
*o look over, we see a little rehearsal of some 



school-boy drum-and-bugle corps in progress. Half 
a dozen lads, ten or twelve years old, with drums, 
and as many more with bugles, are drilling under 
the supervision 
of an officer in 
a cocked hat. 
Back and forth 
they march, 
their little lead- 
er, who plays a 
trumpet, b e a t - 
ing time with his 
instrument, \'ery 
full of import- 
ance, ver)' de- 
sirous of having 
his command 
do their best 
before the Pont 
Neuf audience. 
The Parisian schoolboj- is often a very quaint- 
looking little fellow as you see him on his way to 
the schoolhouse, over the door of which you read 
the legend : " Industrie, Emulation, Progrds." He 
wears a sombre black garment like a long-sleeved 
apron which covers him to the knees ; he has 
stockings ^ you can see them all down about his 
ankles — and shoes too. Of the rest of his outfit 
you cannot know, for the black garment covers 
him completely. His hair is closely cropped and 
he is often bareheaded. Then you will see others 
with their book-knapsacks strapped upon their 
backs, and perhaps wearing a white linen cap. 
The boys have their military uniform ; then, with 
their flat-topped, visorless blue caps they look like 
a lot of small sailors on parade. 

For half a mile or more along tli^ quais Conti, 
Malaquais, and Voltaire, are the book-stalls. 
Upon the parapet along the river-side in boxes, or 
in piles upon the stone, are books, books, books. 
Books old and new, in every language ; school- 
books, story-books, religious and devotional books 
and irreligious and bad books, portfolios of prints 
and music, old coins and miscellaneous rubbish. 
People saunter along looking here and there be- 
tween the covers of the volumes and often 
arrested by some book of special interest. An 
old priest in a long black gown becomes absorbed 
in what he has discovered and, standing, reads 
on as unconscious of the jostling passers-by as 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 



341 



though he were in his own study, while an old 
woman by his side, evidently a domestic, buries 
her face between the leaves of her volume fully 
as absorbed as he. 

The island of La Cite is the site of the earliest 
settlement of Paris. There was an old Roman 
Palace, and the royal residence was for many years 
upon its banks. High above the surrounding 
buildings rise the great square towers of the 
cathedral of Notre Dame. As we approach it we 
pass along the quai under the walls of the old 
palace and prison, the Conciergerie, whose round 
towers with pointed roofs look like great candles 
with extinguishers upon them. Those gray walls 
could almost 
match the Bastile 
in the stories they 
might tell. In the 
open space just 
beyond, and ex- 
tending for some 
distance along 
the quai, is held 
the flower mar- 
ket. Here, on 
market days, 
plants of every 
description in 
pots and boxes or bundles of earth, and flowers in 
bunches or bouquets, are offered for sale. It is a 
pretty sight. The white-capped women and blue- 
bloused men, the customers often fair and finely 
dressed, the bright 
masses of many-hued 
flowers combine into 
a brilliant picture of 
Parisian street-life. 

A few steps from 
the flower market 
bring us to the open 
space in front of the 
great Cathedral of 
Notre Dame de Paris. 
Shall we go within, 
into the atmosphere 
of historic reverie, or 
shall we climb its 
towers, among its great belfries, and galleries where 
are wild, fantastic gargoyles — grotesque figures 
carved in stone of creatures which 




A STREET- 
SPRINKLER. 



Are neither man or woman. 
They are neither brute or human, 

but look decidedly fiendish as they lean over and 
peer leering and scowling at the passers in the 




SOME GARGOYLES OF NOTRE DAME. 

street below ; or shall we go on to the Pont Royale 
— the starting-place from which the little steamer 
leaves for down-the-river trips to St. Cloud or 
Suresnes, where we can dine and end the day's 
saunter through the Heart of Paris ? Securing a 
seat upon the shady side of the boat we enjoy the 
" voyage." We are " voyageurs " if we go no more 
than a hundred yards ; and most certainly are we 
deserving of the term if we go six or eight miles. 
That is about as far as many Parisians ever care 
to get from their beloved cit}^. We pass again 
the bathing-houses and lavoirs and the horses still 
wallowing in the water. 

The golden dome of the Invalides sparkles in 
the sunlight and the old soldiers are strolling 
about in the grounds. You can only see the 
shining dome from the river, but you catch sight 
of one of the veterans as you pass the Pont des In- 




SOME FRENCH SCHOOL-CHILDREN. 



valides, and you know he is but one of many poor 
old fellows passing their last days under the shelter 
of this great " Soldiers' Home." I remembei one 



342 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 



unfortunate, stumping about upon two wooden legs 
looking as I saw him in a vine-covered alley, like 
some queer wading bird, a heron or a stork. 

We are drawing away from the city itself, and 
presently strains of music from an orchestrion or 
hand-organ apprise us that we are just arriving at 
the Pont du Jour, where a sort of perpetual fete 
is in progress. 

You can see the swinging horses and fandan- 
goes in motion, and the booths where gjannasts 
and acrobats exhibit their strength and skill and 
any one in the crowd is invited to try a fall with 
the champion wrestler. There is a menagerie and 
a lion-tamer who makes the poor king of beasts 
jump over a broomstick ; and there are shooting 
galleries where for a sou one may have the privi- 
lege of throwing a ball at a dozen comical grin- 
ning heads upon diminutive bodies. 

The crowd at a French fete is a most good- 
humored company. Old and young are there to 
be amused and people who have come in carriages 
go round on the little horses or in the pitching 
boats side by side with workingmen, soldiers and 
children and all are equally jolly and smiling. 
The martial spirit of the country asserts itself 
even in their sport, for when one mounts a swing- 




THE FLYING HORSES. 



lunge at the ring, their faces expressing the grea,,. 
est interest and determination. Some of the 
whirling machines are two stories in height and 
are gorgeous in paint and gilding while the mo- 
tive power is a small steam engine which also 




ing hobby horse, a little rapier is given him and 
he endeavors to carry away upon its point a little 
brass ring suspended just within reach. Round 
go the horses, and one after another their riders 



AT THE HOTEL DES INVALIDES. 

furnishes breath for a calliope or orchestrion send- 
ing out a jjopular tune loud enough to be heard a 
mile away. 

We get but a glimpse of all this for the boat 
bears quickly away, the river soon becomes free 
from stone embankments and flows between grassy 
and wooded banks again. We dine at St. Cloud, 
in the park which is open to all, and hundreds are 
there to-day. 

Sitting here at a table under the trees we see a 
number of carriages drive up to the entrance of 
the park to which they are not allowed admittance, 
and their occupants alight and come in on foot. 
It is a newly-married pair with their friends out 
for the brief wedding journey. After the cere- 
mony has taken place the wedding party take 
carriages and drive out to the Bois de Boulogne 
or St. Cloud where they walk in the park and 
dine under the trees in some open-air cafe. The 
groom in evening dress and the bride in white, 
leaning upon his arm, head the procession. An 
officer of chasseurs and a heavy father oppressed 
by the heat lend dignity to the affair and the 
children bring up the rear. 

There is some bustling about and arranging the 
couples in proper order and then as the carriages 
are driven away the company moves in a very 
stately way down the walk under the trees, and 
disappears from sight. 

If it had chanced to be a fete day, so that the 
cafe's of St. Cloud were filled, we would have gone 




ANNUAL CELEBRATION OF THE FALL OF THE BASITLE. 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS, 



345. 



down the river to the next landing-place and at 
Suresnes sat under our vine and fig tree in a cafe 
overlooking the moving life on the river; the pleas- 
ure boats and passenger steamers, and heavy 
freight barges with families living on board ; there 
are the children and domestic pets, and the 
flowering plants in pots giving a homelike look to 
the heavy dingy craft. 

The out-of-door life in cafes is one of the most 
noticeable things in France to Englishmen or 
Americans who never, except at picnics, eat a 
dinner in the open air. With the Frenchman in 
order to be quite happy, it seems to be necessary 
that he should take his dinner under a shelter no 
heavier than the foliage of a tree or some gayly 
striped awning. The tree may be a poor thing in 
a tub, standing in a courtyard or high up upon a 
balcony in some narrow street, but it stands for all 
the country to the man who lakes his soup and 
salad under the shadow of its poor leaves. So 
national is this feeling that in the warm weather 
you always can have your dinner served to you in 
the open air, in an arbor or under a tree ; and you 
will soon come to share the Frenchman's liking for 
the custom. 

A house-boat moored by the shore shows how 
some families take their outing, having a pleasant 



down the river with plenty of rest and comfort and 
pleasant scenery. Some of the boats we pass are 




OPEN-AIR CAFE. 




A WEDDING PARTY AT ST. CLOUD. 

time during the hot weather, living luxuriously in a 
iaige flat-bottomed boat and making a slow cruise 



brilliant with colored awnings which screen the 
occupants from the rays of the sun or from the 
observation of other crews. 

We notice as we look up 
and down that the river itself 
is not like American streams 
and the gray, hazy color and 
the unfamiliar forms of some 
of the trees tell us that we 
are figures in a French land- 
scape, a landscape that we 
have often seen upon canvas 
but never encountered out of 
doors in America. 

But it is upon the great 
national fete day, the day of 
the Fete de la Republique, 
which commemorates the 
fall of the Bastile, that the 
river assumes its most brilliant aspect. For days 
before, men are at work putting in place the decora- 
tions along the quais and making ready for the 
grand illumination. Thousands upon thousands 
of little glass cups are arranged upon the bridges 



346 



THROUGH THE HEART OF PARIS. 



f.hat the outline of every arch and pier may be 
traced in lines of blazing tapers. Tall masts along 
the quais are brave with bunting, and the monogram 
R. F. {Republique Francaise) is displayed in every 
available place. The lines of trees which border 
the river are hung with colored lanterns and the 
Champs Elyse'es and Place de la Concorde are fes- 
tooned with myriads of glass globes which will 
shine like gigantic strings of golden beads as soon 
as the gas shall be lighted At night the sky is 
ablaze with varied and brilliant lights. Not one 
rocket but scores together rise into the blackness 
above and showers of fiery rain descend from half 
ihe heavens at once. Our boat like the others, is 



crowded with a very orderly though jovial and en- 
thusiastic company of French people who give 
expression to their deliglit at each ascending burst 
of fire. The culmination comes, as we arrive in 
sight of the Palace of the Trpcadero all defined 
in lines of fire, the glare of electric and Bengola 
lights relieving it against the darkness behind like 
some theatrical fairy palace. 

The quais and bridges are thronged with spec- 
tators and the river is made still more brilliant 
by innumerable gayly decorated boats in which 
men are burning colored lights — until we seem to 
bo floating upon a fiery river sparkling with red 
and silver and golden spray. 




JUST SEVEN YEARS OLD. 




SEVEN summer suns have brightly shone 
Since first you saw the light of day ; 
Seven winter snows have come and gone 
Since first in loving arms you lay, 
A father's pride, a mother's joy, 
A darling little baby bo)'. 



n^ 



(y^'d^ 



The little dainty robes of white 

Have long ago been laid away ; 
The little kilts of plaid so bright 
Are worn no more by you to-day : 
In trousers, every true boy's pride, 
You now affect a manly stride. 



JUST SEVEN YEARS OLD. 



3*7 



Our baby boy with dimpled hands, 

With stalwart limbs and sturdy lungs, 
Who talked and told us all his plans 
With ablest of all baby-tongues — 
Has he been stolen, lost or sold ? 
Why, bless me ! he is seven years old. 



You'll want a rod to fish for trout, 

For cousin Ben says 'tis " such fun; " 
And — mercy on us ! — I've no doubt 
But by that time you'll want a gun ; 
And I shall be beset by fear. 
Lest you should shoot yourself, my dear. 



We well recall his baby bow, 

The kiss he threw we bring to mind ; 
He doffs his hat to ladies now. 
For .^i is both polite and kind. 
T jd baby boy we erstwhile had, 
Is now a gentlemanly lad. 



You'll play base-ball, and tennis too, 

With other big boys on the lawn. 
And many other things you'll do, 
When seven other years are gone. 
This seven gone and seven more. 
Our bov will stand at manhood's door. 



With other lads he goes to school. 

He reads his book, he joins in games ; 
Knows the result of many a rule. 
Knows many scientific names : 
This laddie, still a pride and joy. 
No longer is a baby boy. 



Ah, little lad, we all can guess 

What boys will do, both great and small ; 
But boyhood passed, I must confess 
I cannot prophecy at all ; 

Although I sometimes half-way plan 
What you will do when you're a man. 



'Tis said that every seven years 

Brings change complete to every one ; 
A change that manifest appears 
In all who dwell beneath the sun. 

That you are changed who will not say ? 
You who are seven years old to-day. 



What cause will claim your hand and voice ? 

The world affords so wide a range ! 
'Twere idle to foretell your choice, 
For hopes and aspirations change : 
— The last fond hope you have expressed. 
Is for a ranch somewhere Out West ! 



When seven more years shall pass away 

Another change will then appear ; 

You'll be our boy, though, as to-day. 

And to our hearts be just as dear. 

— Perhaps you'll wear long trousers then. 
And short coats like your cousin Ben. 



Whatever work may come to claim 

Your hand, your head, and loving heart, 
Whatever be your name or fame, 
I pray you may act well your part. 
Be faithful, honest, earnest too, 
And grace whatever work you do. 



Your longer legs will want to stride 

A big bicycle by that time ; 
A live horse then you'll want to ride. 

And up steep mountain-sides you'll climb. 
Perhaps you'll join the Knockabout, 
And taste the joys of camping-out. 



May Heaven grant all these years to you, 

To crown a boyhood pure and sweet ; 
May all your life be good and true, 
A blessing unto all you meet : 

And blessings rest upon your head. 
When ten times seven years have fled. 








E 



ASTER lilies, creamy white, 

Blossomed in the morning light 



Lilies fair and pure and sweet ; 
In their loveliness complete. 

Eut the maiden looked and sighed. 
Still with heart unsatisfied : 

"All the lilies are so cold ; 
Ah, could but a rose unfold, 

Warm from out the heart of June, 
Fragrant in the April noon ! " 



Then the old man, pitying, smiled. 
Half in mockery, on the child : 

" Every season has its own ; 
No June rose was ever known 

Rest and slumber to forego, 
On an April morn to blow." 

" Give me then an Easter rose 
Wakeful through the frost and snows 



Spake the maid, imperious still ; 
And the florist wrought her will. 

On the next year's Easter morn, 
Lo ! the miracle was born. 

And among the lilies came, 
One fair rose without a name. 

Outer petals white as snow ; 
Inner, with the tender glow 

Of the blended hues of dawn. 
Ere the morning's flush is gone — 




Faintest tint of seashell rare, 
Palest gold of mermaid's hair. 



" Wake ! O maiden, wake and see ! ' 
Bent the fair head reverently. 

" O, my queenly Easter rose. 
Never summer flower that blows 

" Sweet as thou, or can compare 
With thy matchless beauty rara. 




J 



THE OLD, OLD STORY. 




THE PERFECT WORD.— ROBIN HOOD. 



35* 



THE PERFECT WORD. 




MY dear little Willy — my boy of four — 
Played with his blocks on the nursery floor. 
In gaudy tints on the blocks was set, 
In printed letters, the alphabet ; 
This way and that way, side by side, 
Block after block he turned and tried. 
Watching my Willy, his voice I heard, 
"Come and see, mamma, I've made a word!" 
Though busy at work, I never forgot 
To look when he asked, what mother would not ? 
" Is that a word, mamma ? " he always said ; 
I laughed, and said " no," and shook my head. 
At last worn out, too tired to creep. 
On the nursery floor he fell asleep ; 
To lay him down in his crib I went. 
And I saw he had made by accident 
A word with the blocks set side by side — 



A word when he hadn't even tried. 
He had made a litter, as oft before, 
With the blocks all over the nursery floor; 
But, like a mother, I could not bear 
To spoil the word, so I left it there. 
A thought came into my heart : Just so 
We grown-up ones to our duties go. 
We ponder them over, we toil and fret 
Over our life like an alphabet ; 
Till, after awhile, too tired to weep, 
Over many failures we fall asleep. 
Only a letter through life we've made 
,, And, dreaming of doing, have only played ; 
Yet the wondrous power of love may change, 
And unknown to us, may the deeds arrange. 
O, when we wake may the voice be heard 
Telling at last of the perfect word! 



ROBIN HOOD. 



WHEN out of doors the rain-drops drive 
Each bee to seek its sheltered hive. 
When every ant and spry field-mouse 
Withdraws into its mimic house. 
And Prince, my greyhound, wistful looks, 
I often leave my story-books. 
And up the attic stairway wind 
While joyfully Prince leaps behind. 



Whene'er I lead the battle on 
Prince is my valiant Little John ; 
And in a chair stiff-backed and old 
I faithful Friar Tuck behold. 
Boxes and chests begrimed with dust- 
These are the followers I trust. 
And if I bid them have no fear 
The rafters seem to answer clear. 



And there, a yard-stick for my bow, 
Through Sherwood's forest-aisles I go ; 
The cobwebs are my waving boughs, 
I slay the red deer as they browse ; 
In dusky ambush long I lie 
To wait for pilgrims passing by ; 
I do not harm the poor or good, 
For I am noble Robin Hood. 



So as the rainy hours slip by 
We play together. Prince and I, 
Till in the gathering twilight gloom 
I see armed men with helm and plume ; 
And downward then on flying feet 
With Prince I beat a swift retreat. 
Find refuge safe at mother's knee 
And loving smiles to welcome me. 



352 



FATHER'S COMING. 



FATHER'S COMING. 



The clock is on the stroke of six, 

The father's work is done ; 
Sweep up the hearth, and mend the fire. 

And put the kettle on. 
The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 
'Tis weary crossing o'er the wold. 

He is crossing o'er the wold apace, 
He is stronger than the storm ; 

He does not feel the cold, not he. 
His heart it is so warm. 

For father's heart is stout and true 

As ever human bosom knew. 

He makes all toil and hardship light : 
Would all men were the same 1 

So ready to be pleased, so kind, 
■ So very slow to blame ! 

Folks need not be unkind, austere, 

For love hath readier will than fear. 

Nay, do not close the shutters, child. 

For far along the lane 
The little window looks, and he 

Can see it shining plain ; 
I've heard him say he loves to mark 
The cheerful firelight through the dark. 

And we'll do all that father likes : 

His wishes are so few. 
Would they were more ! that every hour 

Some wish of his I knew ! 
I'm sure it makes a happy day 
When I can please him any way. 

I know he's coming by this sign, 

That baby's almost wild ; 
See how he laughs and crows and stares - 

Heaven bless the merry child ! 
He's father's self in face and limb, 
And father's heart is strong in him. 

Hark ! Hark ! I hear his footsteps now ; 

He's through the garden gate. 
Run, little Bess, and ope the door, 

And do not let him wait. 




Shout, baby, shout ! and clap thy hands. 
For father on the threshold stands. 

Mary Howitt. 

HOLY MATRIMONY. 

HERE is an awe in mor- 
tals' joy, 
A deep mysterious fear 
Half of the' heart will still 
emplo}'. 
As if we drew too near 
To Eden's portal, and those 

fires 
That bicker round in wavy 

spires. 
Forbidding, to our frail de. 
sires. 
What cost us once so dear. 

We cower before the heart- 
searching eye 
In rapture as in pain ; 
Even wedded Love, till thou 
be nigh. 
Dares not believe her gain : 
Then in the air she fearless springs, 
The breath of heaven beneath her wings. 
And leaves her wood-note wild, and sings 
A tuned and measured strain. 

Ill fare the lay, though soft as dew 

And free as air it fall. 
That, with thine altar full in view, 

Thy votaries would enthrall 
To a foul dream of heathen night, 
Lifting her torch in Love's despite, 
And scaring with base wildfire light 

The sacred nuptial hall. 

Far other strains, for other fires. 

Our marriage offering grace ; 
Welcome, all chaste and kind desires, 

With even matron pace 
Approaching down the hallowed aisle ! 
Where should ye seek Love's perfect smile, 
But where your prayers were learned erewile, 

In her own native place ? 



MARRIAGE. 



Where, but on His be..jgnest brow, 
Who waits to bless you here ? 

Living, he owned no nuptial vow, 
No bower to fancy dear : 

Love's very self, for him no need 

To nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed : 

Yet comfort in his eye we read 
For bridal joy and fear. 

'T is he who clasps the marriage band, 

And fits the spousal ring. 
Then leaves ye kneeling, hand in hand, 

Out of his stores to bring 
His Father's dearest blessing, shed 
Of old on Isaac's nuptial bed, 
Now on the board before ye spread 

Of our all-bounteous King. 

All blessings of the breast and womb, 
Of heaven and earth beneath, 

Of converse high, and sacred home 
Are yours, in life and death. 

Only kneel on, nor turn away 

From the pure shrine, where Christ to-day 

Will store each flower ye duteous lay. 
For an eternal wreath, 

John Keele. 

MARRIAGE. 

Lord, living here are we 

As fast united yet, 
As when our hands and hearts by thee 

Together first were knit. 

And in a thankful song. 

Now sing we will thy praise, 
For that thou dost as well prolong 

Our loving as our days. 

The frowardness that springs 

From our corrupted kind. 
Or from those troublous outward things 

Which may distract the mind. 

Permit not thou, O Lord, 

Our constant love to shake, 
Or to disturb our true accord, 

Or make our hearts to ache. 

George Wither. 



353 

THE LITTLE "WHITE-HAIRED 
MOTHER." 

It ,is reported that on the occasion of the inauguration of 
President Garfield, March 4th, 1S81, his first act, after taking 
the official oath, was to honor his mother, who sat by him, by 
giving her a filial kiss. He then received the congratulations 
of the high officials who surrounded him. 

With sudden praise a mighty voice 

Sweeps all the Continent : 
Helpless before the people's choice, 
The statesmen's wills have bent : 
It honors first, before all other, 
A patient little " white-haired mother." 

The day has come : the hour draws near; 

Looks on the listening land ; 
Whom brings this Ruler, peer with peer, 
Who stays him hand in hand 1 
Honored by him, above all other, 
He brings his little " white-haired mother." 

The glittering embassies of kings 

Are standing in their state; 
Their tributes rank as lesser things ; 
They and their kingdoms wait. 
While, reverently, before all other, 
The Ruler greets his " white-haired mother." 

Ah, States may grow, and men may gain. 

And power and riches swift increase ; 
The brunt of every country's strain. 
Its fight for purity and peace. 
Comes through its husbands, daughters, 

brothers. 
At last on patient, " white-haired mothers." 
New York, March 5, 1881. 

Mrs. Helen Hunt Jacksom. 

MEMORIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN". 

Far back in my musings, my thoughts have 

been cast 
To the cot where the hours of my childhood 

were passed. 
I loved all its rooms, to the pantry and hall. 
But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than 

all. 
Its chairs and its table, none brighter could 

be, 



354 



MEMORIES OF THE OLD KITCTTEN. 



For all its surroundings were sacred to me, 
To the Ra'J 'n the ceiling, the latch on the 

door ; 
And I loved every crack of that old kitchen 

floor. 



I remember the fireplace with mouth high 

and wide, 
The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side, 



Came down ever}' Christmas, our stockings to 

fill; 
Cut the dearest of memories I've laid up in 

store. 
Is the mother that trod that old kitchen floor. 



Da}' in and day out, from morning till night, 
Her footsteps were busy, her heart always 
light ; 




Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came pud- 
dings and pies, 

That fairly bewildered and dazzled our 
eyes ; 

And then, too, Saint Nicholas, slyly and 
still, 



For it seemed to me then that she knew not a 

care, 
The smile was so gentle her face used to 

wear. 
I remember with pleasure what joy filled our 

eyes 



THE HA> BIBLE. 



355 



When she told us the stories that children so 

prize ; 
They were new every niglit, though we'd heard 

them before 
From her lips, at the wheel, on the old kitchen 

floor. 




"The I ike plale with Mouth Hh.h and A 

I remember the window where mornings I'd 
run, 

As soon as the daybreak, to watch for the 
sun ; 

And I thought, when my head scarcel)' reached 
to the sill. 

That it slept through the night, in the treiss 
on the hill. 

And the small tract of ground that my eyes 
there could view 

Was all of the world that my fancy knew ; 

Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 

For a world in itself was that old kitchen- 
floor. 



To-night those old visions come back at their 

will. 
But the wheel and its music forever are still ; 



The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away. 
And the fingers that turned it lie mould'ring 

in clay : 
The hearthstone, so sacred, is jusi as 'twas 

then, 
And the voices of children ring out there 
again ; 
The sun through the win- 
dow looks in as of yore. 
But it sees stranger feet on 
the old kitchen floor. 



I ask not for honor, but 

this I would crave — 
That when the lips speaking 

are hushed in the grave, 
My children will gather 

theirs round at their 
side, 
And tell of the mother that 

long ago died : 
'Twould be more enduring, 

far dearer to me 
Than inscription on marble 

or granite could be, 
To have them tell often, as 

I did of 3'ore, 
Of the mother that trod the old kitchen floor. 

THE HA' BIBLE. 

Chief of the household gods 
Which hallow Scotland's lowly cottage 
homes ! 
While looking on thy signs 

That speak, though dumb, deep thought 
upon- me comes ; 
With glad yet solemn dreams my heart is 
stirred, 
Like childhood's when it hears the carol of a 
bird ! 

The mountains old and hoar, 

The chainless winds, the streams so pure 
and /ree, 
The God-enamelled flowers. 

The waving forest, the eternal sea, 



A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE. 
the mountain's 



35^ 
The eagle floating o'er 

brow, — 
Are teachers all ; but, oh, they are not such 

as thou ! 

Oh, I could worship thee ! 

Thou art a gift a God of love might give ; 
For love and hope and joy 

In thy Almighty-written pages live : — 
The slave who reads shall never crouch 
again ; 
For, mind-inspired by thee, he bursts his feeble 
chain ! 

God ! unto thee I kneel. 

And thank thee ! Thou unto my native 
land — 
Yea to the outspread earth — 

Hast stretched in love thy everlasting 
hand, 
And thou hast given earth, and sea, and 
air, — 
Yea, all that heart can ask of good and pure 
and fair ! 

And, Father, thou has spread 

Before men's eyes this charter of the free, 
That all thy book might read. 

And justice, love, and truth, and liberty. 
The gift was unto men, — the giver, God ! 
Thou slave ! it stamps thee man, — go spurn 
thy weary load ! 

Thou doubly precious book ! 

Unto thy light what doth not Scotland 
owe : 
Thou teachest age to die, 

And youth in truth unsullied up to grow ! 
In lowly homes a comforter art thou, — 
A sunbeam sent from God, — an everlasting 
bow ! 

O'er thy broad, ample page 

How many dim and aged e3'es have 
pored ! 
How many hearts o'er thee 



In silence deep and holy have adored : 
How many mothers, by their infants' bed, 
Thy holy, blessed, pure, child-loving words 
have read ! 

And o'er thee soft young hands 

Have oft in truthful plighted love been 

joined ; 

And thou to wedded hearts 

Hast been a bond, an altar of the mind! 

Above all kingly power or kingly law 

May Scotland reverence aye — the Bible of 

THE Ha' ! 

Robert Nicol. 

A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY 
FIRE. 

O thou of home the guardian Lar, 

And, when on earth hath wandered far 

Into the cold, and deep snow covers 

The walks of our New England lovers, 

Their sweet secluded evening star ! 

'Twas with thy rays the English Muse 

Ripened her mild domestic hues ; 

'Twas by thy flicker that she conned 

The fireside wisdom that enrings 

With light from heaven familiar things ; 

By these she found the homely faith 

In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th. 

When Death, extinguishing his torch. 

Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ; 

The love that wanders not beyond 

His earliest nest, but sits and sings 

While children smooth his patient wings : 

Therefore with thee I love to read 

Our brave old poets ; at thy touch how stirs 

Life in the withered words ! how swift recede 

Time's shadows ! and how glows again 

Through its dead mass the incandescent 

verse, 
As when upon the anvils of the brain 
It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought 
By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's 

thought ! 
Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred, 
The aspirations unattained. 
The rhythms so rathe and delicate, 




PAPA S COME HOME. 



A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MT FIBE. 



559 



They bent and strained 

And broke, beneath the sombre weight 

Of any airiest mortal word. 

What warm protection dost thou bend 
Round curtained talk of friend with friend, 
While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, 
To softest outline rounds the roof. 
Or the rude North with bafided strain 
Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! 



A flower of frailest revery, 

So winds and loiters, idly free, 

The current of unguided talk, 

Now laughter-rippled, and now caught 

In smooth dark pools of deeper thought. 

Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, 

A sweetly unobtrusive third : 

For thou hast magic beyond wine, 

To unlock natures each to each ; 

The unspoken thought thou canst divine ; 




'O Thou of Home the GiiARmAN Lar 



Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne 

By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems 

Gifted upon her natal morn 

By him with fire, by her with dreams, 

Nicotia, dearer to the Muse 

Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, 

We worship, unforbid of thee ; 

And, as her incense floats and curls 

In airy spires and wayward whirls, 

Or poises on its tremulous stalk 



Thou fillest the pauses of the speech 
With whispers that to dream-land reach, 
And frozen fancy-springs unchain 
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ; 
Sun of all inmost confidences ! 
To thy rays doth the heart unclose 
Its formal calyx of pretences. 
That close against rude day's offences, 
And open its shy midnight rose. 

James Russell Lowelt- 



THANKSGIVING TUUKEY. 




THE FIRST THANKSGIVING, 
'FlU. YOUR HEARTS WITH OLD-TIME 



THANKSGIVING TURKEY. 

Valleys lay in sunny vapor, 
And a radiance mild was shed 

From each tree that like a taper 
At a feast stood. Then we said, 
" Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, 
Of good Thanksgiving turkey." 

And already still November 
Drapes her snowy table here. 

Fetch a log, then ; coax the ember ; 
Fill your hearts with old-time cheer; 
Heaven be thanked for one more year, 
And our Thanksgiving turkey ! 

Welcome, brothers — all our party 
Gathered in the homestead old ! 

Shake the snow off, and with hearty 
Hand-shakes drive away the cold ; 



Else your plate you'll hardly hold 
Of good Thanksgiving turkey. 

When the skies are sad and murky, 
'Tis a cheeful thing to meet 

Round this homely roast of turkey — 
Pilgrims pausing just to greet, 
Then with earnest grace, to eat 
A new Thanksgiving turkey. 

And the merry feast is freighted 
With its meanings true and deep. 

Those we've loved and those we've hated. 
All, to-day, the rite will keep, 
All, to-day, their dishes heap 

With plump Thanksgiving turkey. 

But how many hearts must tingle 
New with mournful memories ! 
In the festal wine shall mins;le 



THANCSGIVING TUEKEY. 



361 




* Our good Thanksgiving Turkey." 



Unseen tears, perhaps from e3'es 
That look beyond the board where Hes 
Our plain Thanksgiving turkey. 



See around us drawing nearer 

Those faint yearning shapes of air — 

Friends than whom earth holds none dearer ! 
No — alas ! they are not there ; 
Have they then forgot to share 
Our good Thanksgiving turkey? 



Some have gone away and tarried 
Strangely long; by some strange 
wave ; 
Some have turned to foes ; we carried 
Some unto the pine-girt grave ; 
They'll come no more so joyous- 
brave 
To take Thanksgiving turkey. 

Nay, repine not. Let our laughter 

Leap like fire-light up again. 
Soon we touch the wide Hereafter, 
Snow-field yet untrod of men ; 
Shall we meet once more — and 
when ? 
To eat Thanksgiving turke)- ? 



And though not, 'twere still ungrate- 
ful 

'Mid such warm companionhood 
To forecast tlae future fateful. 

Finding there no balanced good, 
'Tis but a type of finer food, 

This plain Thanksgiving turkey ; 



Of higher gifts a quaint reminder, 
Then let the bounty do its best 

To make us gladder, stronger, kinder. 
Bid no ghost to be our guest. 
But eat as those now gone to rest 
Once ate Thanksgiving turkey. 




"And ths mcrky J^bast is 



ITS Meanings." 



362 



A FAMEWELL. 




A FAREWELL. 

My fairest child, I have no song to give you 
No larlv could pipe to skies so dull and gray 
Yet ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 



Be good, sweet maid, a.nd let who will be 

clever : 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day 

long; 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingslev. 



MUD PIES. 

Sweetened with sugar, and sprinkled with 

spice, 
Apple turn-overs are really nice ; 
But make-believe pies are a great deal more 

fun, 
When little cooks bake them out here in the 

sun, 



With soft coaxing touches they mix up the 

dough — 
Brown flour is said to be wholesome, you 

know ; 
And if little fingers shall gather a stain, 
Why, water and soap will soon wash them 

again. 



And after the wonderful baking is done — 
The droll jolly baking out here in the sun — 
The sweet little cooks will be happy to take, 
If somebody give it, a good slice of cake. 

Margaret E. Sangster. 



MUD PIES. 

Tell me, little housewives, 

Playing in the sun, 
How many minutes 

Till the cooking's done ? 
Johnny builds the oven, 

Jenny rolls the crust, 
Katy buys the flour 

All of golden dust. 



TO A LITTLE DAUGHTER. 



353 



Pat it here, and pat it there ; 

What a dainty size ! 
Bake it on a shingle — 

Nice mud pies ! 

Don't you liear the bluebird 

High up in the air ? 
"Good morning, little ones. 
Are you busy there ? " 
Pretty Mister Squirrel 

Bounces down the rail, 
Takes a seat and watches, 
Curls his bushy tail. 

Twirl it so, and mark it so 
(Looking wondrous wise) ; 

All the plums are pebbles — 
Rich mud pies ! 

Arms that never weary, 

Toiling dimple-deep; 
Shut the oven door, now. 

And soon we'll take a peep. 
Wish we had a shower — 

Think we need it so — 
That would make the roadside 

Such a heap of dough ! 

Turn them in, and turn them out; 

How the morning flies ; 
Ring the bell for dinner — 

Hot mud pies ! 

George Cooper. 



TO A LITTLE DAUGHTER. 

Could thy life, a pleasure boat, 
Ever by the green banks float. 
Gliding gently on the stream, 
I would ne'er of danger dream. 

But, my child, the silent tide 
Bears thee to the ocean wide ; 
And when there, oh, who can 

tell 
How the waves may rage and 

swell ? 



With no anxious parent near, 
Who the tossing bark will steer r 
Driving fast before the gale, 
Who will watch and furl the sail ? 

Here's the pilot, here's the friend 
God has given the voyage to tend ; 
Trust it, child, with all thy heart; 
Never, never, from it part 




llWIIHIIIIililllllHillll I 

" Could Thy Life, 



3^4 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 




Glow of Crimson Light.* 



This, an angel, at the helm, 
Thee the waves will not o'erwhelm ; 
This, an angel, at thy side, 
Thou the foaming surge may ride. 

Then I will not ask to know 
How the tide of years shall flow ; 
S"^ooth, I'll pray, and yet if rough, 
So Ood be with thee, 'tis enough. 

W. A. Muhlenberg, D.D. 



CHRISTMAS EVE. 

God bless the little stockings 

All over the land to-night. 
Hung in the choicest corners. 

In the glow of crimson light ! 
The tiny, scarlet stocking, 

With a hole in the heel and toe. 
Worn by wonderful journeys 

The darlings have had to go. 



And Heaven pity the children. 

Wherever their home may be, 
Who wake at the first gray dawning, 

An empty stocking to see, 
Left, in the faith of cliildhood, 

Hanging against the wall, 
Just where the dazzling glory 

Of Santa's light will fall ! 

Alas ! for the lonely mother, 

Whose cradle is empty still. 
With never a shoe nor a stocking 

With dainty toys to fill ! 
Who sits in the swarthy twilight 

There, sobbing against the pane, 
And thinks of the little baby 

Whose grave lies out in the rain ! 

Oh, the empty shoes and stockings 

Forever laid aside ! 
Oh, the tangled, broken shoe-strings, 

Never more to be tied ! 



VACATION DATS. 



365 



Oh, the little graves at the mercy 
Of the cold December rain ! 

Oh, the feet in the snow-white sandals, 
That never can trip again ! 

But happier they who slumber, 
With marble at foot and head, 



Than the child who had no shelter, 
No raiment, nor food, nor a bed 1 

Then heaven help the Living ! 
Children of want and pain. 

Knowing no fold nor pasture, 
Out, to-night, in the rain ! 

May Riley Smith. 




• Thk uttlb Stockings all over 



VACATION DAYS. 



Each year, early in the summer, 
While yet 'tis blue, blue June, 

Suddenly the wild birds waken, 
And with a longing tune 




SING THE Song of Hammocks." 



Go song-singing of the children 
That are shut from the sun ; 

" They are coming," the singers carol, 
" For the school-days are done ! " 



And they sing the song 
of cherries 
Along the garden 
wall ; 
And they sing the song 
of berries 
That grow in thick- 
ets tall ; 
And they sing the song 
of rambles. 
Long rambles in the 
sun : 
" They are coming," the 
singers carol, 
" For the school-days 
are done ! " 



365 

And they sing the song of hammocks 
Hung in the deep pine trees, 

Where the children brown and brighten 
With swaying in the breeze — 



AFTER vacation: 



AFTER VACATION. 

Again they muster from the far-o£E hillside, 
From dusky valley and from sea-girt shore ; 




' A Merry Band, so full of Youth's E 



Happy, happy little children, 

Just let out in the sun ! 
■"They are coming," the singers carol, 

" For the school-days are done ! " 



Give the woild up to the children. 

Yes, near and far and wide ! 
Let the willing welcomes waken 

Up all the country side. 
Meet them, bird and bee and blossom. 

And meet them, breeze and sun, 
Carol ! carol ! Oh, carol ! carol ! 

That the school-days are done ! 

Ella Farman. 



Their tramping feet resound along the high- 
ways. 
Their gleeful shouts ring on the air once 
more. 

A merr)' band ! So full of youth's elixir. 
How can their restless spirits e'er essay 

The tasks that wait their patient, steady labor 
After the long, bright, summer holiday ? 

Not now, O children, in the sunny meadows 
Ye cull the flowers, or by the brooklet 
stray, 
But in the fields of knowledge, thick with 
blossoms. 
To gather sweets for a far future day. 




369 

So sang pretty Cicely, 
A morning in spring. 
Birds to her music were whirring cut- 
side, 
The earth was decked like a blooming 
bride ; 
Cicely sang, "It's House-cleaning 
Day ! " 

"House-cleaning, mother! You prom- 
ised — 
Ah! zc//m/ jolly fun — 
That I should be in it as much as I 
like, 
Till everything's done ! 
The baby and Bridget may go out to 

tea, 
I don't care for the school-girls, not 
one will I see," 
Cicely sang, " it is House-cleaning 
Day !" 



Here, too, you roam a land of fairest promise. "^^ 

Watered by many a stream of limpid hue 
Where weary travellers find sweet re- 
freshment 
And garner richest stores of old 
and new. 

We bid thee welcome to the homes 
that missed thee. 
To the deserted schoolroom's open 
door. 
The Nation's hope is in thee ; keep 
thy birthright ; 
Thine heritage is more than 
golden store. 

A SPRING SONG. 

" Into each life must fall — 
A little of everything: " 




" What Jully Fun ! ' 



37° 



CHILV-SONGS. 



A gay little figure in a work-a-day 
gown, 
Merry and sweet, 
Started at earliest peep o' the da}', 

Busily fleet; 
With broom and with dust-pan, with 

mop and with brush. 
With a moiling and toiling, with a bus- 
tle and rush, 
Cicely sang, " It is House-clean- 
ing Day ! " 

"Cheep! cheep!" overhead in 
branches. 
The birds call "Good-night!" 
What Cometh heavily up the back stairs 

Oh dear ! what a sight ! 
Tattered and torn like the man in the fable. 
Blistered and grimed till she needed a label, 
Cicely groaned, " It's been House-clean- 
ing Day ! " Margaret Sidney. 





' It's Been House-ci.eaning Day." 



CHILD-SONGS. 

Still linger in our noon of time 

And on our Saxon tongue 
The echoes of the home-born hymns 

The Aryan mother sung. 

And childhood had its litanies 

In every age and clime; 
The earliest cradles of the race 

Were rocked to poet's rhyme. 

Nor sky, nor wave, nor tree nor flower, 
Nor green earth's virgin sod. 

So moved the singer's heart of old 
As these small ones of God. 

The mystery of unfolding life 
Was more than dawning morn, 

Than opening flower or crescent moon 
The human soul new-born ! 

And still to childhood's sweet appeal 

The heart of genius turns. 
And more than all the sages teach 

From lisping voices learns, — 

The voices loved of him who sang 
Where Tweed and Teviot glide. 

That sound to-day on all the winds 
That blow from Rydal-side,— 



TELLING A STOBT. 



37» 



Heard in the Teuton's household songs, 

And folk-lore of the Finn 
Where'er to holy Christmas hearths 

The Christ-child enters in ! 

Before life's sweetest mystery still 
The heart in reverence kneels ; 

The wonder of the primal birth 
The latest mother feels. 

We need love's tender lessons taught 

As only meekness can; 
God hath his small interpreters ; 

The child must teach the man. 

We wander wide through evil years, 
Our eyes of faith grow dim ; 

But he is freshest from His hands 
And nearest unto Him ! 



And haply, pleading long with him 
For sin-sick hearts and cold, 

The angels of our childhood still 
The Father's face behold. 

Of such the kingdom ! — Teach thou us, 

O Master most divine, 
To feel the deep significance 

Of these wise words of thine ! 

The haughty eye shall seek in vain 

What innocence beholds ; 
No cunning finds the key of heaven, 

No strength its gate unfolds. 

Alone to guilelessness and love 

That gate shall open fall ; 
The mind of pride is nothingness, 

The childlike heart is all ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




TELLING A STORY. 



Little Blue-eyes is sleepy. 

Come here and be rocked to sleep. 
What shall I tell you, darling ? 

The story of Little Bo Peep ? 
Oi of the cows in the garden. 

Or the children who ran away .■' 
If I'm to be story-teller 

What shall I tell you, pray ? 

" Tell me " — the Blue-eyes opened 
Like pansies when they blow, — 

" Of the baby in the manger, 
The little child-Christ, you know. 



I like to hear that 'tory 

The best of all you tell." 
And my four-year-old nestles closer 

As the twilight shadows fell. 

And I told my darling o%'er 

The old, old tale again': 
Of the baby born in the manger, 

And the Christ who died for men. 
Of the great warm heart of Jesus, 

And the children whom He blest, 
Like the blue-eyed boy who listened 

As he lay upon my breast. 



372 



vacatioj:^ song. 



And I prayed, as my darling slumbered 

That my child, with eyes so sweet, 
Might learn from his Saviour's lesson 

And sit at the Master's feet. 
Pray God he may never forget it, 

But always love to hear 
The tender and touching story 

That now he holds so dear. 



My school is out for a season of rest, 
And now for the school-room I love the 
best! 




"I Have Closed My Books and Hidden My Slate.' 



VACATION SONG. 

I have closed my books and hidden my slate, 
4nd thrown my satchel acrost> the gate, 



My school-room lies on the meadow wide. 
Where under the clover the sunbeams hide ; 
Where the long vines cling to the mossy bars. 
And the daisies twinkle like fallen stars : 




CUSTER'S LAST FIGHT. 



THE BOY WJJO WOULV SIT UP. 



37? 



Where clusters of buttercups gild the scene, 
Like showers of gold-dust thrown over the 

green, 
And the wiiid's flying footsteps are traced, as 

they pass, 
By the dance of the sorrel and dip of the 

grass. 



For wonderful love do her lips impart, 
And all her lessons are learned by heart 

Oh, come ! oh, come ! or we shall be late. 
And Autumn will fasten the golden gate, 
Of all the school-rooms, in east or west, 
The school of nature I love the best. 

Katharine I.f.e Bates. 




'My Lessons are Written in Clouds and Trees.' 



My lessons are written in clouds and trees, 
And no one whispers, except the breeze. 
Who sometimes blows, from a secret place, 
A stray, sweet blossom against my face. 

My school-bell rings in the rippling stream 
Which hides itself, like a school-boy's dream. 
Under the shadow and out of sight. 
But laughing still for its own delight. 

My school-mates there are the birds and bees 
And the saucy squirrel, less wise than these. 
For he only learns, in all the weeks, 
How many chestnuts will fill his cheeks. 

My teacher is patient, and never yet 
A. lesson of hers did I once forget, 



THE BOY WHO WOULD SIT UP. 



He would sit up, he would sit up, 
No matter what any one said ; 
This sad little, bad little, mad little boy- 
Objected to go to bed. 
Crows might wing their latest flight, 
Sparrows cheep the world " Good-night," 
And the sun in western skies, 
Hide 'neath quilts of gorgeous dyes. 
Yet the son of whom we tell, 
At hint of bed-time, would rebel. 
For he would sit up, he would sit up, 

No matter what any one said ; 
This sad little, bad little, mad little boj 
Objected to go to bed. 



376 



Tick ! tock ! the kitchen clock 

Is busy counting nine. 
The sand-man says : " Were all like you. 

My job I would resign." 
The crickets chirp, and seem to say : 
" This sitting up is jolly — hey ? " 
The fire is fading by degrees, 
The moon peeps in, and hints : " You'll freeze. 
You silly boy. What pranks are these ? 
It's cold enough to make me sneeze." 
Mice are scampering up and down 
The pantry shelves, no puss to frown. 




' Objected to go to 



Tick ? tock ! Twelve, one, then two ! 
That boy's awake. His nose is blue, 
His hands are red, his eyes the same : 
The lamp burns with a feeble flame. 
And e'en the crickets go to sleep. 
When hist ! a voice that makes him creep, 
So ghostly, 'tis, so loud and deep. 

" Tu whit ! Tu whoo ! 

Now who are you. 
Queer little chap, with nose so blue ? 

Say, can't you see 

That night's for me ? " 
TTie frightened urchin screams " Boo-hoo ! 



And, looking round, he spies an owl 
Perched at his elbow. 

Such a fowl 
Proceeding drives his wits away. 
He doesn't have a word to say; ^ 
But his companion, wise, says he : 
" I'm glad I've such good company. 
Inquisitiveness, though, I hate. 
Pray what has kept you up so late ? " 
" What, never shall again t Good night !" 
The trembling boy yells with affright, 
And, scampering to his cosy bed. 

In muffled tones — quilts round his 
head — 

" No more late hours for me ! " he said. 

Now, he won't sit up, he won't sit up ; 

"Though owls are fine," say he, 
" Yet to have one to talk to, all by your- 
self, 

Is stupid company." 



BEST. 

Mother, I see you wi' the nursery light 
Leading your babies, all in white. 

To their sweet rest ; 
Christ, the good shepherd, bears mine 

to-night. 

And that is best. 



I cannot help tears, when I see them 
twine 

Their fingers in yours, and their bright curls 
shine. 
Or. your warm breast ; 
But the Saviour's is purer than yours or mine, 
He can love best. 

You tremble each hour because your arms 
Are weak ; your heart is wrung with alarms 

And sore opprest ; 
My darlings are safe, out of reach of harms, 

And that is best. 

You know over yours may hang even now 
Pain and disease, whose fulfilling slow 



THE MOTHER'S BAY-DBEAM. 



377 



Naught can arrest : 
Mine in God's gardens run to and fro, 
And that is best. 

You know tliat of yours, your feeblest one 
And dearest may live long years alone, 

Unloved, unblest ; 
Mine are cherished of saints around God's 
throne, 

And that is best. 




You must dread for yours the crime that sears, 
Dark guilt unwashed by repentant tears. 

And unconfessed : 
Mine entered betimes on eternal years. 

Oh, how much the best ! 

But grief is selfish ; I cannot see 
Always why I should so stricken be 

More than the rest ; 
But I know that, as well as for them, for me 

God did the best ! 

Helen Hunt Jackson. 

THE MOTHER'S DAY-DREAM. 

A mother sat at her sewing, 

And her brow was full of thought ; 

The little one playing beside her 
Her own sweet mischief wrontrht. 



A book on a chair lay near her; 

'Twas open, I strove to see, 
At the old Greek artist's stor)', 

"I paint for eternity." 

So I fancied all her dreaming ; 

I watched her serious eye 
As the 'broidery dropped from her fin- 
gers. 
And she heaved a heartfelt sigh. 
She drew the little one nearer, 

And looked on the sunny face. 
Swept the bright curls from the open 
brow. 
And kissed it with loving grace. 

And she thought, " I, too, am an 
artist ; 

My life-work here I see. 
This sweet, dear face, my hand must 
trace, 

I must paint for eternity. 
Hence, each dark passion shadow! 

Pain's deeply-graven lines ! 
Hers must be the reflected beauty 

That from the pure heart shines. 

" But how shall I blend the colors. 

How mingle the light and shade, 
Or arrange the weird surroundings 

The future has arrayed ? 
Oh, life ! thou has weary nightfalls, 

And days all drear that be, 
But from thy darkness, marvelous grace 

Wilt thou evoke for me? 

"Alas, that I am but a learner! 

So where shall I make me wise. 
Or obtain the rare old colors, 

The Master's precious dyes ? 
I must haste to the fount of beauty, 

Must pleasingly kneel at His feet. 
And crave, 'mid his wiser scholars. 

The humblest pupil's seat. 

"Then, hand and heart together. 
Some grace shall add each day; 



378 



A motheh's thoughts by her child. 



Thus, thus, shall her face grow lustrous 
With beauty that can not decay. 
( My darling ! God guide my pencil. 
And grant me the vision fo see 
In the light of his love, without blemish 
or stain. 
In the coming eternity." 

Then the mother awoke from her day- 
dream. 

Her face grew bright again. 
And I knew her faith was strengthened 

By more than angel's ken. 
Her fingers flew the faster 

As she sang a soft, low song ; 
It seemed like a prayer, for the child so 
fair, 

As it thrilled the air along. 

A MOTHER'S THOUGHTS BY HER 
CHILD. 

O God of boundless purity. 
How strange that thou should'st give to 
me 

This young and tender heart, 
To train to walk in Thine own ways, 
That he may end his mortal days 

In glory where Thou art ! 

Alas ! how slow, how hopeless, too. 
Am I, this sacred work to do ! 

My utmost strength must fail. 
Yet, Holy Spirit, if Thy power 
Be given to me from hour to hour 

I surely shall prevail. 

O Gracious influence, to his heart 
Give will to choose the " better part,' 

Which none can take away. 
By him, O helping God, be found ; 
To him in gifts of love abound ; 

Be with him every day. 

And, God of grace, his mother bless 
With prayer, and faith, and watchful- 
ness. 



Now that she has a child. 
Let not her weak indulgence spioil. 
Nor yet her stern, harsh manner foil, 

This heart so soft and mild. 

Help her in every act and word 
To follow close her lowly Lord; 

Be this her only pride — 
That she may holy influence shed 
Around this dear immortal's head, 

And keep him on Thy side. 




Young and Tknder Heart." 



Then, when the last great trump shall 

sound. 
And all before their Judge be found 

To hear their sentence pass'd. 
May he in glory then appear, 
Receive Thy prize. Thy " Well done " 
hear — 
A conqueror at last. 

Yes, may this soul of rarer worth 
To me than all the souls of earth, 

But wear Thy diadem ; 
Then, through eternity I'll raise 
A mother's song of unmixed praise. 

To Thee, redeeming Lamb. 




A FATHER S LOVE, 



A CHILD ASLEEP. 



3«» 




W EAK\ Ch 

A CHILD ASLEEP. 



How he sleepeth ! having drunken 

Weary childhood's madragore ; 
rrom his pretty eyes have sunken 
Pleasures, to make room for more ; 
Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which lie 
pulled the day before. 

Nosegays ! leave them for the waking ! 
Throw them earthward, where they 
grew; 
Dim are such beside the breaking 
Amaranths he looks unto; — 
Folded eyes see brighter colors than the 
open ever do. 

Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden 
From the palms they sprang beneath ; 

Now perhaps divinely holden. 
Swing against him in a wreath — 



We may think so, from the quivering of his 
bosom, and of his breath. 

Vision unto vision calleth, 

While the young child dreameth on ; , 
Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth. 
With the glory thou hast won ! 
Darker wert thou, in the garden, yesternooQ 
by summer's sun. 

We should see the spirits ringing 

Round thee — were the clouds away:' 
'Tis thy child's heart draws them, singing, 
In the silent-seeming clay. 
Singing! — stars that seem the mutest go in') 
music all the way. 

As the moths around the taper, 
As the bees around the rose, 



ZSz 



THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 



As the gnats around the vapcr, 
So the spirits group, and close, 
Round about a hoh" childhood, as if drinking 
its repose. 

Shnpes of brightness overlean thee 

With their diadems of youtli, 
On the ringlets which half screen thee, 
While thou smilest — not ia sooth 
Thy smile — bv.t the over-fair one dropt from 
f ome ethereal mouth. 

Haply it is angel's duty 

During slumber, shade by shade 
To fine down this childish beauty 
To the thing it must be made, 
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the 
tomb shall see it fade. 

Softly, softly ! make no noises ! 

Now he lieth dead and dumb, — 
New he hears the angels' voices 

Folding silence in the room. — 



leep the meaning of the 



Now he muses deep mc mcanuig u 

[eaven-words as they come. 



Speak not, he is consecrated — 

Breathe no breath across his eyes ; 
Lifted up and separated, 
On the hand of God he lies, 
ii. a sweetness beyond touching, held in 
cloistral sanctities! 

Could ye bless him — father, mother? 

Bless the dimple in his cheek ? 
Dare ye look at one another. 
And the benediction speak ? 
Would ye not break out in weeping, and con- 
fess yourselves too weak ? 

He is harmics: — ye are sinful, 

Ye are troubled — he, at ease; 
From his slumber, virtue winful 
Floweth outwards with increase. 
Dare not bless him — but be blessed by his 
peace — and go in peace. 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



^Ti, 




THE ANGEL AND THE CHILD. 



An angel with a radi.ant face. 

Above a cradle bent to look, 
Seemed his own image there to trace, 

As in the waters of a brook. 

"Dear child ! who me resemblest so," 
It whispered, " come, oh, come with me ! 



Happy together let us go, , . 

The earth unworthy is of thee ! 

" Here none to perfect bliss attain ; 

The soul in pleasure suffering lies : 
Joy hath an undertone of pain. 

And even the happiest hours their sighs. 



MY NURSEnr. 



3S3 



" Fear doth at every portal knock ; 

Never a day serene and pure 
From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock 

Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. 

What then, shall sorrows and shall fears 
Come to disturb so pure a brow ? 

And with the bitterness of tears 
These eyes of azure troubled grow ? 

" Ah no ! into the fields of space, 
Away shalt thou escape with me ; 

And Providence will grant thee grace 
Of all the days that were to be. 




"Let no one in thy dwelling cower 

In sombre vestments draped and veiled ; 

But let them welcome thy last hour, 
As thy first moments once they hailed. 

"Without a cloud be there each brow; 

There let the grave no shadow cast ; 
When one is pure as thou art now, 

The fairest day is still the last." 

And waving wide his wings of white, 
The angel at these words had sped 
Towards the eternal realms of light ! — 
Poor mother ! see, thy son is dead ! 
Jean Reboul. Translated 

by H. W. Longfellow. 



MY NURSERY. 

I thought that prattling 
boys and girls 
Would fill this empty 
room. 
That my rich heart would 
gather flowers 
From childhood's open- 
in? bloom. 



One child and two green graves are mine, 

This is God's gift to me ; 
A bleeding, fainting, broken heart, — 

This is my gift to Thee ! 

Elizabeth Payson Prentiss. 



CHILDREN EVERYWHERE. 

Sporting through the forest wide ; 
Playing by the water side ; 
Wandering o'er the heathy fells ; 
Down within the woodland dells ; 
All among the mountains wild, 
Dwelleth many a little child ! 



In the baron's hall of pride ; 
By the poor man's fireside : 
Mid the mighty, mid the mean. 
Little children may be seeiv, 



' Childhood's Opening Bloom. 



3S4 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 



Like the flowers that spring up fair, 
Bright and countless everywhere ! 

In the far isle of the main ; 
In the desert's lone domain ; 
In the savage mountain-glen, 
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men ; 
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone ; 
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
On a league of peopled ground, 



Little children, not alone 
On the wide earth are ye known, 
'Mid its labors and its cares, 
'Mid its sufferings, and its snares ; 
Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
In the world of love and life, 
Where no sinful thing hath trod — 
In the presence of your God, 
Spotless, blameless, glorified^ 
Little children, ye abide ! 

Mary Howitt. 



^^J?^'^.^'|^;V-iW 




O'er thh Heathv Fells.*' 



Little children may be found ! 
Blessings on them ! they in me 
Move a kindly sympathy, 
With their wishes, hopes and fears ; 
With their laughter and their tears ; 
With their wonder so intense. 
And their small experience 1 



AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 

How sweet it were, if without feeble 

fright. 
Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, 
An angel came to us, and we could bear 
To see him issue from the silent air 



WBICII SHALL GO f 



385 



At evening in our room, and bend on ours 
His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers 
News of dear friends, and children who have 

never 
Been dead indeed — as we shall know forever. 

Alas ! we think not of what we daily see 
About our hearths — angels, that are to be. 



I will not choose, tiut leave it for thee 
To give me the one least dear." 



The mother started, with movement wild, 
And drew them all close to her heart : 
The Angel reached forth and touched the 

child 
Whose placid features, whene'er she smiled, 





.■J 



Or may be if they will, and we ]iv pu 
Their souls and ours to meet in happy air, 
A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart 

sings 
In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. 
Leigh Hunt. 

WHICH SHALL GO > 

A mother sat with her children three ; 

The Angel of Death drew near : 
" I come for one of thy babes," quoth he — - 
" Of the little band, say. which shall it be ? 



ketlL t 1 the nnthe s 1,l uit\ mill, 

"With this one," said he, "canst thou part?" 

" With this one ? O God ! She is our first- 
born, — ■ 

As well take my life away ! 
I never lived till that blessed morn 
When she, as a bud, on my breast was worn: 
Without her the world would be all forlorn, — 

Spare this one, kind Death, I pray I " 

The angel drew backwards, then touched again ; 
This time 'twas a noble boy : 



THE CHILD'S TALENT. 



" Will it give thee to part with him less 

pain ? " 
" Hold, touch him not! " she cried, "refrain ! 
He's an only son — if we had but twain — 
Oh, spare us our pride and our joy ! " 

Once more the Angel stood waiting there ; 

Then he gently laid his hand 
On the shining head of a babe, so fair 
That even Death pitied and touched with care ; 
While tlie mother prayed, " Merciful Heaven, 
forbear ! 

'T is the pet of our little band ! " 




'A Mother sat With Her Children Three. 



" Then 7ii/iidi ? " said the Angel ; " for God 
calls one." 
The mother bowed down her head ; 
Love's troubled fount was in tears o'errun — 
A murmur — a struggle — and Grace had 

won. 
"Not my will," she said, "but thine be 
done !" 
The pet-lamb of the fold lay dead. 

Elizabeth Clementine Kinney. 



THE CHILD'S TALENT. 

God intrusts to all 

Talents few or many; 
None so 3'oung or small 

That they have not any. 

Though the great and wise 

Have a greater number, 
Yet my one I prize, 

And it must not slumber. - 

God will surely ask, 
Ere I enter heaven. 

Have I done the task 
Which to me was given ? 



Little drops of rain 

Bring the springing flow- 
ers. 
And I may attain 

Much by little powers. 

Every little mite. 

Every little measure, 
Helps to spread the light. 
Helps to swell the treas- 
ure. 

James Edmeston. 



EARTH WITHOUT 
CHILDREN. 

A dreary place would be 
this earth 
Were there no little peo- 
ple in it ; 
The song of life would lose its mirth 
Were there no children to begin it. 

No little forms, like buds to grow. 

And make the admiring heart surren- 
der; 
No little hands on breast and brow. 
To keep the thrilling love-chords ten- 
der. 




NAII,IMG UP THE ROSE-TREE. 



EARTfl WITHOTTT CHILBU'EN. 



No babe within our arms to leap, 

No little feet toward slumber tending ; 

No little knee in prayer to bend, 
Our lips the sweet words lending. 

What would the mothers do for work, 
Were there no pants nor jackets tear- 
ing? 

No tiny dresses to embroider ? 

No cradle for their watchful caring. 



389 

The sterner souls would grow more stern, 
Unfeeling natures more inhuman, 

And man to stoic coldness turn, 

And woman would be less than woman. 

For in that clime toward which we reach,. 

Through Time's mysterious dim un- 
folding, 
The little ones with cherub smile 

Are still our Father's face beholding. 




' A Dreary Place Would be this Earth Were T: 



No rosy boys, at wintry morn, 

With satchels to the school-house 
hasting ; 
No merry shouts as home they rush. 

No precious morsel for their tasting ; 

Tall, grave, grown people at the door, 
Tall, grave, grown people at the table : 

The men on business all intent, 

The dames lugubrious as they're able ; 



So said His voice in whom we trust, 
When in Judea's realm a preacher, 

He made a child confront the proud. 
And be in simple guise their teacher. 

Life's song, indeed, would lose its 
charm. 

Were there no babies to begin it; 
A doleful place this world would be, 

Were there no little people in it I 



390 



REJOICING THE HOMELESS. 
REJOICING THE HOMELESS 



When grass grows green in spring-time 

And trees are budding gay, 
When the breath of bursting lilacs 

Makes sweet the air of May, 
When cowslips fringe the brooksides, 

And violets gem the dells, 
And tremble mid the mosses 

The wind-flower's slender bells, 



A basket, flower-laden. 

Swings lightly on her arm, 

And right and left she scatters, 
Alike to bad and good, 

The beauties of the garden, 
The treasures of the wood. 




^ 



\ *^T^v:,''. 



ti 



i^'j 





When the fragrant lily rises 

From its sheltering sheath of green, 
In the city's narrow alleys 

Saint Emily is seen. 
A modest little maiden, 

She walks secure from harm : 




THE WEE BIT SHOON. 



391 



When summer days drag slowly, 

In languor, heat, and pain. 
To those who lie in hospital. 

Never to rise again, 
Dreaming, with fevered longing, 

Of shady country homes. 
Where roses hang in clusters. 

And honeysuckle blooms, 
From cot to cot so softly, 

Moves dear Saint Emily ; 
And here a rose she proffers, 

And there a bud lays she. 
The close abode of sickness 

She fills with fragrant bloom; 
Her gentle presence passes 

Like music through the room^ 
And many a moaning sufferer 

Hushes his sad complaint. 
And follows with his weary eyes 

The movements of this saint. 



When autumn paints the woodlands 

With scarlet and with gold. 
When the blue-gentian's lids unclose 

In frosty meadows cold. 
From the little troop of children 

That crowd some Orphan Home, 
The joyous shout arises, 

" Saint Emily has come ! " 
And round her close they gather. 

An eager little band, 
While from the well-stored basket 

She fills each outstretched hand 
With purple hillside asters, 

And wondrous golden-rod. 
And all the lingering flowers that love 

To dress the autumn sod, 
And pallid cheeks flush rosy, 

And heavy eyes grow bright. 
And little hearts forlorn and lone, 

Stir with a deep delight. 



And when the woods are naked, 
And flowers no longer blow. 

When the green nooks they love so well 
Are buried in the snow, 



Not quite unknown that presence 

To children sick in bed, 
Bearing bright wreaths of autumn leaves, 

And strings of berries red. 
A heaven sent mission, surel)', 

To cheer the sick and poor 
With bounties that the bounteous God 

Has strewn beside our door — 
To gladden little children. 

To comfort dying hours, 
To bear to wretched hearts and homes 

The gospel of the flowers. 
What marvel if glad blessings 

Surround Saint Emily ! 
What marvel if some loving eyes 

In her an angel see ! — 
Yet many a thoughtful boy or girl 

As sweet a saint might be. 

E. F. Frye. 

THE WEE BIT SHOON. 

The wee bit shoon she used to wear 

They gav me aften greet ; 
At gloamin' time could I aince mair 

But haud those pink-white feet. 

But haud those feet within my ban's, 

An hear her ripplin' glee, 
A warl' o' houses an' o' lan's, 

Hoo empty wad they be. 

Those tiny palms, could I but taste, 

Sae oft to me stretched out. 
The earth wad be nae mair a waste, 

My held nae whirl about. 

The curls, hauf-grown, that graced her 
broo. 

The glintin' o' her een. 
The tremblin' o' her matchless mou', 

Still haunt me though unseen. 

Wad death gie back, for ane short hour, 

The lapfu' that was mine; 
But, ah ! but, ah ! I'd hae nae power 

The treasure to resign. 

J. C. Rankin, D. O. 



392 



THE SLEEPING BABE. 




■' The Baby Wept.' 

THE SLEEPING BABE. 

The baby wept ; 
The mother took it from the nurse's arms 
And soothed its grief, and stilled its 
vain alarms, 

And baby slept. 

Again it weeps, 
And God doth take it from the moth- 
er's arms 
From present pain, and future un- 
known harm. 

And baby sleeps. 

Samuel Hinds, D, D. 

GRACE FOR A CHILD. 

Here a little child I stand, 
Heaving up my either hand; 
Cold as paddocks though they be, 
Here I lift them up to thee, 
For a benison to fall 
On our meat and on us all. Amen. 
Robert HERElcifc. 

A MOTHER'S WAIL. 

My babe ! my tiny babe ! my only 

babe! 
My single rosebud in a crown of thorns ! 



My lamp that in the narrow hut of life, 
Whence I looked forth upon a night of storms, 
Burned with the lustre of the moon and 
stars ! 

My babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! 
Behold the bud is gone, the thorns remain ! 
My lamp hath fallen from its niche, — ah me ! 
Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am 

left 
Forever and forever in the dark ! 

My babe ! my babe ! my own and only babe ! 
Where art thou now ? If somewhere in the 

sky 
h.x\ angel holds thee in his radiant arms, 
I challenge him to clasp thy tender form 
With half the fervor of a mother's love. 

Forgive me. Lord ! forgive my reckless grief! 
Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart 




** Heaving up Mv E_ 




A SONG OF MAY-TIME. 



GOINQ TO PED 



395 



HEAVEN. 

SINCE o'er thy footstool, here below, 
Such radiant gems are strewn, 
O! what magnificence must glow. 
My God, about thy throne! 
So brilliant here those drops of light — 
There the full ocean rolls, how bright! 

If night's blue curtain of the sky. 
With thousand stars enwrought, 

Hung like a royal canopy. 

With glittering diamonds fraught — 

Be, Lord, thy temple's outer veil. 

What splendor at the shrine must dwell. 

The dazzling sun at noontide-hour. 

Forth from his flaming vase. 
Flinging o'er earth the golden shower. 

Till vale and mountain blaze — 
But shows, O Lord! one beam of thine — - 
What, then, the day where thou dost shine? 

Ah ! how shall these dim eyes endure 

That noon of living raj's? 
Or how my spirit, so impure, 

Upon thy glory gaze! 
Anoint, O Lord, anoint my sight, 
And robe me for that world of light. 



I want to show my Uncle George 

My pretty birthday ring; 
And sing him, 'Jesus loves me,' 

For he likes to hear me sing; 
My dolly, ' Haddynewya,' 

Her yellow dress is thin, 
And she's sitting on the horse-block, 

I forgot to bring her in ; 
I want to go and get her, 

She'll catch a cold and die ; 
I want to get my nankachick, 

I guess I've got to cry. 
I said I'd wait till papa comes, 

I wonder what he'll think ; 
There's something hurts me in my throaty i 

I want to get a drink. 
I guess I'd rather get it la 

My little silver cup — 
What makes me have to go to bed 

When you are staying up ? " 
So Fannie Angelina 

Was determined not to do it. 



GOING TO BED. 

Our Fannie Angelina 

Didn't want to go to bed, — 
Her reasons would you know ? then 

Let me tell you what she said 
At eight o'clock precisely, 

At the close of yesterday, 
Her mamma in the trundle-bed 

Had tucked her snug away. 
" It isn't time to go to bed, 

The clock goes round too quick ; 
It hurts my back to lie in bed, 

And almost makes me sick : 




" It Hurts mv Back to Lie in Bed. 

Yet she drifted off to Nod land, 
Poor child, before she knew it. 

The queen who reigns in Nod land 
Shut her willful eyes so tight. 

They quite forgot to open 

Till the sun was shining bright. 



DREAM. MY BABY. 




DREAM, MY BABY. 

Mother's baby, rock and rest, 
Little birds are fast asleep. 

Close beneath her mother-breast, 
Safe the bird her brood will keep. 



Oh ! my nestling, mother sings. 

Close within the mother-arms, 
Fold thy little, unfledged wings, 
Safe from any rude alarms. 
Sweet, my baby, on my breast 
Dream your happy dreams and rest. 
Rest, oh ! rest. 

Ah ! my baby, from the nest 

Little birds will some day fly 
To the east and to the west, 

M'ild their pretty wings to try. 
But, fly they fast, my bird, or far, 

Never can they find the spot, 
Under sun or any star, 

Where the mother-love is not. 
Sweet, my baby, on my breast 
Dream your happy dreams and rest. 
Rest, oh! rest. 

Oh ! my baby, mother prays. 

As she clasps you closer still, 
All sweet things for coming days, 

And not any earthly ill. 
Always, child, remember this : 

Mother's heart is warm and true, 
And she tells you, with a kiss. 
There'll be always room for you. 
Sweet, my baby, on my breast, 
Dream your happy dreams and rest; 
Rest, oh 1 rest. 



BED-TIME. 

I. 

The children are going to bed 
In nurseries shaded and clean, 

And many a bright and curly head 
Is nestling the white sheets between. 

Little faces all washed white as snow, 

Are dewy with kisses to-night. 
And young lips are murmuring low 

Sweet prayers — words from consciences 
white. 



BEP'TIME. 



397 



Tiny dresses and jackets and shoes 

Lie folded away till the morn, 
Like the chrysalis, no more of use 

To the gayly-striped insect new-born. 

The angel of sleep hovers near, 

And curtains the room with his wings ; 

That incense to angels is dear 

Which from the nursery altars upsprings. 




Little eyelids quite tired with play, 
Are drooping and closing like flowers, 

And restless young forms laid away, 

To sleep through the long midnight hours. 

In cottage and castle and hall, 

In valley, on prairie, or hill. 
The calm hush of evening doth fall. 

And life hath grown suddenly still. 

At sunset a blessing comes down, 
And peace upon all things is shed, 

For in city and village and town 
The children are going to bed. 



IL 

The children are going to bed, 

Such bed as their lives ever know, 
In alley and attic and shed. 

And cellar-ways fetid and low, 
In homes where wrangle and din 

Turn night into hideous noon. 
Where the voice of shame, sorrow, and sm 

Will break their light slumbers too sooa. 

All tumbled and dirty they lie. 

No kiss on the heavy young brow, 
A tear scarcely dried in the eye. 

The flush of a blow ling'ring now. 
They sleep upon pavement or floor, 

With never a low word of prayer, 
Or gasp at the window or door 

For a breath of the life-giving air. 

Far up in the tenement high 

They sob at the falling of day. 
And angels bend down from the sky 

To hear what the poor children say. 
It may be that even in heaven 

Some bright tears of pity are shed, 
And sins of the day all forgiven 

When the children are going to bed. 

IIL 

" The children are going to bed ! " 

Hushed voices speak gently the word t 
All muffled the mother's light tread. 

No merry " Good-evening " is heard, 
No breath stirs the ringlets of gold. 

No dimple the passionless cheek, 
No tossing limbs ruffle a fold 

Laid over the hands folded meek. 

Oh I quiet the cradle, though small, 

Where the children are laid to their resfc| 
There is room and to spare for them all. 

In Earth's warm and welcoming breast, 
What matter if castle or cot 

Once held the fair image of snow ? 
All alike are they now in their lot. 

As they nestle the flowers below. 



MT LITTLE ONE. 



Then cover them up from our sight, 

Spread the freshest green turf o'er their 
head, 
Bid them one more caressing "good-night," 

The children are going to bed. 
The children are folded in dreams, 

Bright angels have sung them to sleep. 
And stars with their great solemn beams. 

Loving watch o'er their tired forms keep. 

No waking to sorrow or gloom, 

No hunger, no shame, and no sin, 
Oh ! faithful and loving the tomb 

That safe from life's ills shuts them in. 
The sweet name of Jesus our Lord 

Once more o'er their pillows be said, 
And praise, that, secure in His Word, 

The children are going to bed. 



MY LITTLE ONE. 

God bless my little one ! how fair 
The mellow lamplight gilds his hair, 
Loose on the cradle-pillow there. 
God bless my little one ! 



God love my little one ! as clear. 
Cool sunshine holds the first green spear 
On April meadows, hold him dear. 
God love my little one I 

When these fond lips are mute, and when 
I slumber, not to wake again, 
God bless, God guard, God love him then, 
My little one ! Amen. 

Edgar Fawcett. 




'The Ang-bl of Sleep Hovers Near." 



A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN. 




"Lav Xhv HANDb AuouT My Head." 



FOR NIGHT AND MORNING. 

Thou that once, on mother's knee, 
Wert a little one like me, 
When I wake or go to bed 
Lay the hands about my head ; 
Let me feel thee very near, 
Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear. 

Be beside me in the light, 
Close by me through all the night; 
Make me gentle, kind, and true, 
Do what mother bids me do; 
Help and cheer me when I fret. 
And forgive when I forget. 

Once wert thou in cradle laid, 
Baby bright in manger-shade. 
With the oxen and the cows, 
And the lambs outside the house : 



SLEEP WELL, MY DEAR. 



Now thou art above the sky; 
Canst thou hear a baby cry? 



399 



Thou livest in great security; 

But he was punished, and for thee ! 




pray, 

Since thou art so far 
away ; 

Thou my little hymn wilt 
hear, 

Jesus Christ, our Saviour 
dear. 

Thou that once, on moth- 
er's knee, 

Wert a little one like me. 
F. T. Palgrave. 



" Sleep Well, 

SLEEP WELL, MY DEAR. 

Sleep well, my dear, sleep safe and free; 
The holy angels are with thee, 
Who always see thy Father's face. 
And never slumber, nights nor days. 

Thou liest down, soft every way ; 
Thy Saviour lay in straw and hay; 
Thy cradle is far better drest 
Than the hard crib where he did rest. 

None dare disturb thy present ease ; 
He had a thousand enemies ; 



zr^^^' »joa nil tnee wiin his 

heavenly light 
My Dear." To Steer thy Christian 

course aright ; 
Make thee a tree of blessed root. 
That never bends with godly fruit ! 

Sleep now, my dear, and take thy rest, 
And if with riper years thou'rt blest, 
Increase in wisdom day and night. 
Till thou attainest the eternal light ! 

Martin Luther. Translated by 
John Christian Jacobi. 



400 



LITTLE BARBARA. 



THE DOUBLE WINGS: ASPIRATION AND POWER. 



By John James Piatt. 



I AM an eagle — in the sky ; 
I am an eagle — on the ground ! 
With these frail wings to earth I'm bound, 
With tehse quick wings in heaven I fly. 



When high through blissful sunshine play, 
In my strong soul, these golden wings, 
Ah me, these flapping, useless things 

The eagle from the sun delay! 



LITTLE BAR B ARA 



By Clara Doty Bates. 



THE casement roses nod and beckon, 
A soft wind is astir, 
And bumble bees and humming birds 

Go by with boom and whirr ; 
The orioles have swung a cradle 

Up in their green elm-house, 
While robins build a homelier home 
Under the apple-boughs. 

Yet neither bird, nor bee, nor blossom 

Can tempt abroad to-day, 
Wre as they may with song and tint, 

The maiden Barbara, 
br in their stead have brush and palette 

Her senses so beguiled 
?hat she becomes, the while she works. 
An artist, not a child. 

To paint a bunch of peacock feathers 

What colors will she use ? 
An iridescent eye of black, 

With shimmering greens and blues ; 
And she will touch the plumy lashes 

With bronze and glint of gold. 
And just as much of sheen and shine 

As painter's brush may hold. 

Ah, little friends, I know a study 

That lovelier is by far 
Than casement roses, birds or bees, 

Or peacock feathers are ; 




WHAT CULOKS WILL bHE USE? 

A little dark-eyed creature, whiling 
With art her hours away ! 

What sweeter being could there be 
Than maiden Barbara ? 




LISTEN, FATHER, NOT TOO HASTY. 



A BIRD SPEAKS. A LITTLE APRIL FOOL, 
A BIRD SPEAKS. 



40i 



A RIBBON, a ribbon, a ribbon in the sky ! 
That little girl shall have it who can fly so 
high — 
Have it for a border with a dress of blue, 
Or have it for a bow for her bonnet new ! 



The ribbon, the ribbon, has vanished from the sky I 
And not a single little girl spread her wings to fly ! 
They have no wings ? Why, all the birds, both great 

and small have wings — 
Surely, surely, girls must be unhappy little things t 



A LITTLE APRIL FOOL. 



By C. L. C. 




ONE day, in the midst 
Of an April shower, 
This dear little girl 

Was missed for an hour ; 



And under the trees, 
And over the grass, 

We all went hunting 
The little lost lass. 



We found her at last 
Where two walls met, 

A-looking naughty 
And a-dripping wet. 



" I was April-fooling," 
She softly said ; 

And down she dropped 
A shamed little head. 



CONTRARY TOWN. 

By Clara Louise Burnham. 



OH, who has heard of Contrary Town, 
Where all the trees grow upside down ; 
Where turnips are picked from bushes tall. 
And they dig for violets late in the fall ; 
Where pigs go meekly the way they are told, 



And all the pennies are made of gold. 
But nobody sees their shining bright, 
For daylight with them is the darkest night; 
And, dear me, queerer than all the rest. 
The naughtiest children are there the best ! 



404 



UNS OP H I S TIC A TED. 




UNSOPHISTICATED. 



EVEN the doting mother, looking 
fondly while I led her down the 
long Auditorium ball - room, could 
not have said more than " I'm sure my 
darling looks sweet and nice." And this 
after all the pains she had taken m trying to 
make her pretty ! 

I think that, though this was not Miss 
Schermerhorn's first party by any means, I 
was her first partner — not counting duty- 
partners, of course. I mean that I was the 
first young man who had ever gone up, and 
asked her to dance. One of my reasons for 
thinking so was my observation of her pale 
face as she sat by her mother's side, that 
seemed to say: " Do I look forlorn?" and her 
wistful eyes, that seemed prepared for dis- 
appointment, as she gave me her slight 
shrinking bow of recognition — a greeting 
which made a contrast with her mother's 
eager cordiality. Another reason was that, 
as we walked silently down the vast floor, 
her pallor gave way to a flush, starting at 
her neck and mounting to her very temple. 

Why silently? Well, to be frank, I had 
just had a blow. A friend, a young mar- 
ried woman — one of those roses of life's 
garden! — had just talked to me in a way 
that opened my eyes. 

"Do you know, my dear Will, you're the 
very best fellow in the world?" 



" Well, well! One must come away from 
home to hear the news." 

" But you are. I've watched you at a 
good many parties and observed whom you 
selected for your attention." 

"Then your observations must have been 
somewhat self-centered, I fear." 

"Nonsense! Of course, you have been 
good to me; if you hadn't, I should have 
gone out in the dressing-room and cried I 
But when you left me — when I ought not 
to keep you any longer, and could not if I 
tried — I noticed your doings and compared 
them with those of the ordinary run of 
young men." 

" And meanwhile your new partner 
thought you were engrossed in him?" 

" Very likely ; and so I was. Hasn't a 
woman two eyes and two ears? Why has 
she, if not to be able to keep watch on two 
men at once? " 

"Ah! I begin to see. Well, now — 
which of my blunders — struck you most?" 

" The absurdity of being considerate. 
The blunder of being a true gentleman." 

" As how ? " 

"Confess now, William; be a G. W., and 
own up to the little hatchet. Do you, or do 
you not, when you are looking about for a 
partner, go straight to the girl who you 
think will have fewest or none at all? " 



UJVS OP HIS TIC A TED. 



405 



•'Never!" 

"Never choose such a girl?" 

" Never confess, I mean. Wild horses 
shouldn't drag- such an admission from me!" 

" Then you're not the G. W. I took you 
for." 

" I wouldn't own up to such a weakness — 
not to become the happy father of two 
countries — or a whole litter of them." 

"How shocking! Are the United States 
puppies? " 

" No, for their eyes are wide open. But 
you are wandering away from the great sub- 
ject — me." 

"Oh, yes! and your choice of partners. 
Well, you needn't confess, if you call it con- 
fessing; I should call it boasting. Anybody 
could see that, while other young fellows 
are thinking only of their miserable selves, 
and what girl is prettiest or most fashion- 
able, you are thinking how you can be 
kindest and most considerate in your atten- 
tions." 

"Ah, to be sure. Sparing those whom I 
see better occupied than they would be if 
I—" 

"Nonsense! Seeing that everybody has 
a good time, especially those — well, the 
neglected ones." 

"We-ell, I hope nobody except you has 
made this precious discovery of supposed 
charitable motive." 

" Why so? I should hope that everybody 
would think more of you forever, as I do — 
of all such men ; only there isn't any other." 

" Alas! has it come to this?" 

"Come to what? Come to your senses 
and tell me what you mean — just when I 
thought I was being so sweet and flatter- 
ing ! " 

" Why, you unfledged angel, don't you 
see where that would put the girls to whom 
I offer my attentions? Make each an object 
of pity! I might as well devote myself to 
hanging mourning-crape on my friends' 
door-knobs whenever there is sickness in 



the house. To be seen dancing with me 
will be a confession of old maidenhood! " 

" Now you are being horrid. I wish 
you'd go away." I rose. " And if you 
do, I'll never forgive you." I sat down 
again. " Your words are morbid and cruel, 
though your acts are so kind. Why do you 
pick me, of all women, to be hateful to?" 

" Oh, just because I don't think enough 
of anybody else to take so much trouble." 

"Ah! That was spoken more like your- 
self, my good friend. You didn't mean to 
hurt my feelings, so I forgive you. To 
repeat what I said at first: You are the best 
fellow in the world, and you ought to wear 
a halo for a hat-band, and no woman is 
quite worthy of you." 

" No unmarried woman, you mean." 

"Or married woman, either." 

" Oh, please except one! " 

"Alas, she least of all!" 

" But you don't know whom I was think- 
ing of." 

" Well, don't tell me." 

" I will! It was your sister-in-law." 

So, with a laugh, we changed the subject; 
but in a few minutes she said, apropos of 
nothing: 

" You have sat by me long enough, and 
dear Sara Schermerhorn is just longing for 
a waltz with you.'' 

" To be stigmatized as a hopeless wall 
flower? " 

"Now, now! Do you want to pain me 
and spoil my evening?" 

" No, I only want, like the boy, to go 
home and not wait for any pie." 

Slie said nothing, but looked at me with 
grave lips. 

" Oh, don't! '' I cried. " When you look 
like that, you are too effulgent; you wither 
me." 

A smile chased away the severity, and 
she only said: "I am watching to see 
what you do when you leave me." 

"But — leave you alone? You said it was 



4o6 



i/NS OPHISTI GATED. 



good in me to be attentive to the wall- 
flowers." 

"Don't alarm yourself on that score. If 
the worst comes to the worst, my husband 
is always at hand — bless him! " 

" Oh, that husband ! that blessed husband ! 
I think we must read the riot act and dis- 
perse that blessed husband." 

And then, of course, I did as she bid me; 
and my waltz with Miss Schermerhorn 
began. This little interjected narrative just 
about fills out the time spent in the waltz. 
I observed that she waltzed well, consider- 
ing her disadvantages. Our talk was 
unavoidably slight and fragmentary. 
" Do I spin you too fast? " 
"Oh, no; 1— hkeit!" 
" That is a pretty waltz." 
« Yes—' Blue Danube.' " 
« Who came near backing against you?" 
No answer. " A good waltzer has eyes in 
the back of his head." 

" That's why — there are — so few — I sup- 
pose," etc. 

At last, I played my favorite card. 
Detecting the signal by which the band- 
leader indicated that the next measure would 
be the closing one, I selected a convenient 
seat and managed to make the final spin 
coincide with the final notes, and brought 
up at the chosen chairs, halting with the last 
note of the music. 

My partner's cheeks glowed and her eyes 
danced as she panted out: 
" Oh, I thank you so much ! " 
" And I thank you just twice as much as 
you thank me." 

"You'd find it hard to do that! I am 
fond of dancing — too fond of it." 

" We always like to do what we do well." 
And so on. I was finding a good deal of 
pleasure in her undisguised delight; a kind 
of pleasure with which I had grown famil- 
iar during my dancing experience, and one 
which had relieved party-going of much of 
its ennui. That and the joy of seeing and 



talking to Mrs. Thomasson — my fair young 
married friend — were about all that made 
these evenings endurable, seeing that sup- 
pers are a weariness to the flesh, and the joy 
of wine short-lived and unworthy — almost 
shameful. 

But there was a shadow over this pleasure 
on this particular evening. The memory of 
Mrs. Thomasson's words kept intruding. 
One hates to have his cherished secrets 
found out; and then the idea of being a kind 
of social leper whose touch is social death! 
That settled it; I would dance no more. I 
could still go to dinner-parties, etc., for 
there the hostess designates one's partner, 
and to sit by a woman does not stigmatize 
her as an unadmirable, undesirable, neglected 
supernumerary. 

" Shall we rejoin your mother ? " 
"Yes indeed!" And she sprang up with 
a dutiful alacrity which seemed to say that 
she had already detained me longer than she 
ought. I was firmly resolved to leave poor 
Sara with her natural protector and take 
"French leave" — slip out without a good- 
bye to the hostess or even to Mrs. Thomas- 
son. , But somehow, when we came near to 
Mrs. Schermerhorn, I did not turn toward 
her, but kept on in the promenading 
column. 

"There is mamma." 

"Yes, I see. Shall we not make one 
more circuit?" 

Again I saw that gentle flush rise from 
neck to temple as she assented. When we 
passed Mrs. Thomasson, I looked carefully 
away and talked on about something or 
other, I forget what. I knew that fair 
friend would be waiting to give me a 
rewarding smile, and I should loathe it! 
At the first pause, my plain partner, leaning 
a little more heavily on my arm, looked up 
and said, with an effort: 
"How good you are!" 
"What! have you too heard — " and there 
I stuck fast. 




THE LOOK-OUT. 



UNS OPHISTI CA TED 



409 



She suddenly pressed her handkerchief to 
her eyes and seemed strangely agitated. I 
could feel her hand shake; with bowed 
head, she really trembled all over. Why? 
I wondered. It soon appeared. She was 
overcome with laughter! When she could, 
she spoke: 

"Do excuse me — I'm afraid I was dread- 
fully rude; but really — I said you were 
good, and you asked me if I too had heard 
it — and it was too funny! I suppose you 
misunderstood my remark." 

"Ah, yes, to be sure. It sounded like — 
let me see — what was I thinking of?" And 
I cudgeled my brain for some prevarication 
which might relieve my soul. 

With a slight childish toss of the head, 
she shook herself clear of the dilemma and 
said: 

" Well, never mind; don't try to explain 
it." 

"Not try to explain the absurdity of my 
saying that you must have heard of my 
celebrated righteousness?" 

" No, don't try. Because I know all 
about it already." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Oh, nothing, except that Mrs. Thom- 
asson is a great friend of mine, and a very 
great friend of yours." 

As I continued silent, she went on: 

"You don't mind my laughing, I'm sure; 
I love to laugh — when I can. It's not often 
at parties, though often enough at other 
times. Don't you love to laugh?" 

She said " Don't you," and not "Don- 
chew," and "laugh," and not " laff." 

" I suppose so. I scarcely remember." 

"No; on the whole, I think you seem 
like a man who smiles often and laughs 
seldom — though I think you haven't done 
either this evening." 

" I am not always as dead-and-alive as I 
am to-night. Shall I tell you all about it? " 

I scarcely needed to ask, and she did not 
at all need to answer in words; a look was 



enough. By this time, we were opposite 
our original seats; and, finding them still 
vacant, we sat down. Her listening look 
was quite irresistible. Her eyelids seemed 
to have taken a new shape — almost pretty. 

As she knew the mortifying story in the 
main, I had only to tell her how it seemed 
to me — of course, not quite all that I have 
written of my talk with Mrs. Thomasson, 
but all the essential part. A silence fol- 
lowed, broken by my interrogative "Well?" 

" So the very thing which that dear, 
sweet, wise, shrewd, good, lovely, matchless 
woman thought was splendid, you thought 
was — horrid." 

"Yes, just so; but that is not the present 
question." 

" What is the question? " 

"The question is what you think." 

A pause. 

" We-ell — I don't often differ with her." 

"Aha! Who does, or can? " 

" Not I, certainly. She says I am like 
ice-cream — pleasant to take, and sure never 
to disagree with her. By the by, she said 
she got that simile from you." 

" Possibly. How delighted it is to find 
oneself quoted by her! But how about the 
other matter? I call for the previous 
question." 

" Whenever I do differ with her, I am 
always wrong; and I know I am, even 
when I think I am not." 

" Question ! Question ! " 

" How persistent you are! You must be 
a splendid lawyer." 

"Question! Question!" 

" There again! Well, then, I know I am 
right in this matter, because I agree with her 
entirely — completely — to the uttermost." 

Then I went over my side of the case — • 
he repellant view of being known as the 
chooser of partners for their sake instead of 
for my own; but she would not be drawn 
out. When I persisted — made myself dis- 
agreeable, perhaps — she simply said: 



4IO 



UNSOPHISTICA TED. 



" I think I will join mamma, if you will 
be so very kind as to escort me." 

As we went, I asked: " Shall you think 
it needful to tell Mrs. Schermerhorn about 
the matter we have been talking about? '' 

" Have you any objection? '' 

" Assuredly'! I do not want it told to 
anybody. I would like to bury it fathoms 
deep and out of sight." 

" Very well. I think I should not have 
told her, at any rate. She is foolishly fond 
of her duckling." 

" Victory ! That one thoughtless speech 
gives your own case away. It shows that I 
was right that the whole thing was horrid." 

She laughed a little at this view of the 
case, as I left her under the maternal wing; 
and I sauntered back to Mrs. Thomasson's 
side and said: 

" You sent me on a philanthropic mission, 
and I lighted on a gold-mine." 

"Well, what did you expect? Try 
being good and docile some other time, and 
see what compensations fate keeps for nice 
little boys." 

" Your Sara is like all the Saras in his- 
tory and fiction, sacred and profane; they 
are all charming and lovely" — her own 
name is Sara — " and some of them are beau- 
tiful as the day, some good as wheat, 
and some — no, one — both good and beau- 
tiful." 

"Never mind those glittering generalities; 
how about Sara Schermerhorn?" 

"I said she is worthy her name; what 
more could be said ? " 

" True enough. I watched you, and felt 
almost jealous." 

"You jealous? The cause of jealousy 
troubled with her own product! Hit by 
her own deadly arrow! Absurd!" 

"Oh, I don't know. I expect to lose you 
some day, and I am trying to prepare my 
mind for it. Of course, you didn't broach 
that matter we were talking about?" 

" Tell her of the stigma, and that she was 



one of the stigmatized? What part of my 
conduct, madam, would lead you to think 
me such a man?" 

"I confess to certain suspicions; but, if 
you deny it — " 

" I neither admit nor deny that matter 
therein set forth, but hold the said complain- 
ant to strict proof thereof." 

"What jargon is that?" 

"Your ladyship is pleased to call by the 
unpleasant name of jargon a recognized part 
of the answer to a bill in chancery." 

" Heaven forbid that I should ever know 
of it!" 

"Amen, seeing that divorce is a chancery 
proceeding." 

"Is it? Then it has no interest for me. 
But how glad I am that you like my dear 
Sara!" 

" Who could help it?" 

"Who? Why, all the world — the male 
world — can leave her alone as if she were a 
harpy ! " 

" The world is a fool. The world passes 
by the rosebuds, and violets, and goes crazy 
over great, scentless, decorative chrysan- 
themums." 

" Yes, the world is a fool. Everybody is 
foolish except thee and me, and thou art 
a little queer." 

" I did not expect to be taunted with 
my folly by the object of it herself!" 

"Didn't you? How strange! But now go 
on with your heaven-allotted task. There 
are other women here who are famishing 
for a dance, but who will go home fasting 
unless you fly to their rescue." 

"Do you really expect me to point out 
to you another woman as the very least 
attractive person of all my acquaintance?" 

"Call it by any name you like, but live 
up to your character. Go on being the 
delightful, considerate, well-bred man I 
have always thought you. The white 
knight, devoted to the succor of beauty in 
distress." 



UN S O P H I S TI C A TED . 



41 r 



"Beauty? I thought it was the other 
thing that I was to succor." 

" Be good now, and do as I tell you." 

" The very least attractive?" 

« Yes, yes." 

" And you let me off with one?" 

" Yes, if she is unattractive enough." 

" She shall be, from my point of view." 

And I departed, approached the " belle of 
the ball," went through the form of asking 
her to dance, and, being shown her card full 
to repletion, including candidates for all the 
" extra" dances, then, after a few common- 
places, backed out and returned in triumph 
to milady's side, fearing to find her angry, 
but being agreeably disappointed. 

" Will Forquer, did you really go forth 
to find an unattractive woman?" 

" Yes, unattractive to me." 

" And did you pitch upon Miss Ham- 
mersley ?'' 

" Driven by an exacting conscience and 
the obligation of a promise, I did." 

" Well, then, I forgive you." 

And she was uncommonly gracious for 
the rest of the evening. At last, I had 
found an evidence of human weakness in 
my paragon! It was not displeasing to her, 
the belle of yesterday, to find herself set 
upon a pedestal higher than that of the 
belle of to-day ! 

We sat and watched, with good-natured 
cynicism, the brilliant procession promenad- 
ing between dances. 

" Absurd association of ideas! This re- 
minds me of the ' March-past,' at the review 
at Alexandria, before the first Potomac 
campaign; when, as a young lieutenant 
A. A. A. G., I was one of the group that 
sat in the saddle six mortal hours, reviewing 
180,000 men of all arms, and hearing a 
hundred successive bands approach and go 
by, playing ' Hail to the chief who in 
triumph advances.' " 

" What grand things to carry in one's 
memory! And yet you sit here by me, 



quiet as a lamb and peaceable as a lamb 
too." 

" More of one and less of the other, but 
I'll never tell you which is which." 

" Talk more war." 

" Well, the next review I remember was 
one where I made a fool of myself." 

" Did that make it so memorable?" 

" Naturally." 

" How did you particularly distinguish 
yourself?" 

" It was after the campaign— Yorktown, 
Williamsburgh, Fair Oaks, Seven Pines, 
Hanover, Mechanicsville, Gaines Mill, Mal- 
vern, and the rest of the seven days' fights. 
Mr. Lincoln reviewed us." 

"Well?" 

"Well? No, not well. Appalling! 
Divisions looked like brigades, brigades like 
regiments, regiments like companies. Old 
full regiments, which used to be so big that 
their regimental colors were a thousand feet 
apart, had dwindled until the flags were 
only a stone's-throw from each other. The 
Sykes brigade of regulars — the great Forty- 
Fourth New York, the Twentieth Massa- 
chusetts, two Wisconsin regiments, the 
whole Pennsylvania Reserve — well, never 
mind." 

" That is why we are here — victorious, 
happy, and glorious." 

"Yes, but the nameless graves!" 

A silence. 

" Now about the foolishness." 

" Well, I had to turn my horse out of the 
group, dismount, and pretend to be tighten- 
ing his girth^the tears streaming down my 
cheeks." 

" Don't make me foolish in the same 
way!" 

" Let me see your eyes. Thanks. They 
are like morning stars reflected in a lake." 

"There, you have looked long enough; 
look somewhere else." 

In the hallway, as I was putting the 
heavy fur cloak on her shoulders, I heard, 



412 



UNS OPHIS TIC ATE D. 



)ust within the dressing-room, a voice 
wliich I easily recognized, saying in urgent 
tones: 

" No, no, mamma! Please do not." 

So the gentle Sara could be quite firm 
upon occasion! In fact, come to think, she 
had been so when she put an end to the 
conversation about — that. 

But what could be the bone of contention 
between mother and daughter? My un- 
worthy self? I would see. After showing 
milady to her carriage, I returned and met 
the Schermerhorns in the doorway, daugh- 
ter clinging to mother with a retaining 
touch as if still saying "No, no, mamma." 

" Mrs. Schermerhorn, I was waiting to 
meet you, in order to ask to be allowed to 
call." 

" Certainly, Mr. Forquer. We shall be 
most happy." 

"Fridays, Mr. Forquer; Friday after- 
noons and evenings, mamma is always at 
home." 

" And you. Miss Schermerhorn ? " 

"Yes; I try to cheer mamma when 
there come those intervals of nothingness." 

" Well, I'll try to drag you through one 
of those intervals of nothingness." 

" Oh, no; you could only do that by stay- 
ing away." 

And so we parted. The season was clos- 
ing, and I did not chance to meet her again. 
In Lent, I made my Friday call — in fact, I 
made several Friday calls; but as callers 
were not very many, I found no tete-a-tete 
for some weeks. The first time I did find 
myself sitting by Sara — at the tea-table, 
mamma entertaining other guests in the 
parlor — I reopened the old subject, deter- 
mined to get her two views on its two sides. 
Her views on all matters, I had found to be 
well worth having. 

" But, after all, confess that it would be 
distressing to a young woman, to find her- 
self forced to be civil to a fellow who was 
notorious for seeking out the neglected. 



Not so much a society-man as a Humane- 
Society man, you know." Silence. " Do 
tell me what you think." 

" Well, if you must know, I think there 
are girls who might look at it in that light. 
Girls who are, as one might say, ' on the 
ragged edge ' of uncertainty — sometimes 
contented with their lot, and at other times 
furious at the world or the dressmaker ; girls 
who are pretty sure of one or two partners 
of an evening, but only the men who are 
young and unfledged, or who are bad 
dancers practicing on the patience of my 
sex, or who are notorious bores, or, worst of 
all, insufferable egotists." 

"Now, please don't be personal." 

" Oh, you know well enough that, if you 
had been any of these, I would not have 
named them." 

" You might have ventured, seeing that 
such fellows would never recognize their 
portraits." 

" Well, be assured you are not one of 
them." 

" Now, what girls would take the other 
view — would welcome the Humane-Society 
intervention ? " 

" The ones who are not even on the edge 
— never so much as come near it." 

" Are there any such ? " 

"Oh, yes! Hundreds — thousands of girls 
grow up with the ordinary hopes, who pass 
through school unwarned of what is to 
come, who perhaps have even more than the 
ordinary success while they are home-girls 
and school-girls. For you know — or if you 
don't, I do — that it is not the budding 
beauties who win the hearts and praises of 
their teachers. I know mine came near to 
spoiling me — as my mother had quite done 
before." 

" Do go on. This is perfectly delight- 
ful." 

" Well, of course a change comes o'er the 
spirit of their dream." An irrepressible 
quiver came to her lips, and their corners 



UNS OP HIS TI C A TED. 



413 



dropped like those of a hurt child. " They 
wake up slowly to the consciousness of dis- 
appointment." 

" I know well that nature doesn't deal 
fairly with her children." 

"No, she doesn't," with some spirit. 
"She is a perfect Hindoo mother!" 

" And the social swim is her Ganges." 

" Yes, indeed! A muddy, chilling flood! 
It is not fair to make a woman who is not 
fair." 

" Tell me more the secrets of young 
■womanhood." 

" I am afraid I am a traitress." 

"Please be more treasonable." 

" Well, even before such a girl leaves 
school, she begins to fear that — well, that 
all is not lovely before her. Yet she fancies 
that those must win who deserve to win — 
that, when dressed like other society girls, 
she will be happy like them. Then comes 
her debut — her coming-out party — and, 
when she has come out, she would like to 
go in again." 

" Poor dear !" 

" From most men, she receives civil neg- 
lect; from some, absolute rudeness!" 

"What?" 

She looked at me with unshed tears in 
her eyes, and nodded slightly, as if she 
•could not trust herself to speak. Her breath 
came fast and audibly, and she seemed to be 
swallowing a lump in her throat, when sud- 
denly she recovered herself and sprang up, 
crying: 

"What have I done? I must go to 
mamma." 

"No, no!" trying to seize her hand. 
^'Stay! I have something to say to you — • 
something important — " 

But she was gone; and, as I followed her, 
we met her mother bringing in a guest to be 
served with tea. I was duly presented to 
the new-comer, and offered my services as 
tea-bearer. When I took her hand at part- 
ing it was cold, and no answering pressure 



reassured me. Still I sought my bachelor 
quarters happy and confident, and w^rote: 

"I tried to detain you to ask you to be my 
wife — to be guarded and protected from all 
ills, so far as in my power lies, as long as 
we both shall live." 

I posted the letter, and then sat long in 
happy meditation on the soul-satisfying de- 
light I saw before me — the joy of keeping 
in my special charge, the happiness of that 
sweet, gentle, pathetic, plain, guileless, sen- 
sible — but why go on? I was only a 
patronizing idiot, living in a fool's paradise. 
Twenty hours later I had my answer. 

"No, of course not. A thousand times 
no, no, no." 

On Sunday, I called. Mrs. Schermer- 
horn was out. Miss Schermerhorn begged 
to be excused. Was she ill? The maid 
could not say. A pointed rebuff. The first 
snub of my life — a bitter but wholesome 
draught that kept me in the valley of 
humiliation for more than four mortal days. 

Friday came at last; and as early as strict 
form allowed, I rang the well-known door- 
bell — touched the button, to be exact — my 
heart beating so that I could scarcely speak. 

Mother and daughter had left town on 
Monday. The handmaid did not know 
when they were expected back, nor where 
they had gone. Letters? Yes, a boy from 
the lawyer's office called for them every day. 
She did not know what lawyer. 

I think that my face, not usually a tell- 
tale, must have betrayed my dismay, and 
the feminine instinct must have fathomed its 
cause, and a feminine heart sympathized with 
its possible relief; for, just before shutting 
the door of the house and of hope, the woman 
suddenly volunteered the information that 
the place was Middletown and the folks 
visited were relatives. No, she did not 
know in what State was Middletown, nor 
the name of the relatives. 

Then the house-door shut and the hope- 
door opened. Was there not a post-office 



4H 



UJVS OP /I IS TI CA TED 



directory? Yes indeed! Soon found and 
searched, it showed Middletown — eighteen 
of tliem, ranging from Connecticut to CaU- 
fornia. 

But pshaw! What of that? Any cne 
of my brother lawyers would give me the 
address in a moment. A letter signed with 
my own name, left at the Schermerhorn 
house for the boy to take to his employer's 
office — what could be more simple? 

So said, so done. But then came the 
waiting with all its uncertainties. Suppose 
they had asked the lawyer not to give their 
address? Suppose he should not choose to 
do so? Suppose he did not know it, having 
only orders to open the business notes, pay 
the bills, and keep the private letters till 
called for? Suppose — a thousand foolish 
suppositions. The second morning after 
brought the answer, simple as possible. 
The address was a certain Middletown 
which need not be here identified further 
than to say that it was reachable by rail 
from Chicago. 

Gripsack, railway ticket, sleeping-car — a 
mere form — Middletown, toilet, breakfast, 
post-office, and newspaper, the last only an 
excuse for lounging between the door and 
the delivery window for two solid hours. 
The delivery window needed watching, for 
fear the letters might be sent for, instead of 
called for. The face of the girl at the office 
window began to take notice of the stranger 
within her gates, and it was not long before 
an elderly man — probably the postmaster, 
and the father of the girl at the window — 
came out and called my attention to the con- 
dition of the weather — a condition so re- 
markably commonplace that I had not 
observed it. After sundry fishing questions 
which did not bring him a bite, he came out 
distinctly and asked if I had any further 
business in the office. 

This was a complication I had not 
thought of; but my profession had accus- 
tomed me to sudden dilemmas and armed 



me with the control of sudden expedients. 
I retired to a corner, beckoning him to 
follow, and, with a wink and with my 
finger on my lips, I whispered one magic 
word: " Pinkerton." 

It was all-sufficient, and he disappeared 
behind the little boxes. So did the girl 
from the windovjr, for a moment; and whea 
she returned, I observed a new expression 
on her face. Where before had been curi- 
osity and suspicion, I now saw unmistakable 
awe! 

The time was long, yet it did not seem so- 
to me. My anxiety had worn itself out; 
my normal self-esteem had reasserted its 
sway, or something else had come to- 
straighten out my views of life, for I was 
calm, patient, almost happy — as I have often 
been when waiting for the outcoming of a 
" hung jury." It began to seem as if I 
never should see Miss Schermerhorn again» 
and yet could go on hoping to see her and 
enjoying the delight of that hope. The 
early rush of callers had ceased, and I could 
spend most of my time looking out on the 
pleasant country-town street. 

She comes ! She is alone ! I step down 
and go to meet her as if I were treading on 
air ! Her plain face is the loveliest sight that 
ever blessed my eyes, just because it is hers. 

And she ? A moment's hesitation, as if 
duty and resolution urged her to turn and fly 
— then another look into my eager eyes — 
and then two gloved hands stretched out and 
a few words, either spoken so that I could 
hear them, or thought and looked so eagerly 
that I could feel them : 

"Say that you came here for my sake !"^ 

"No, dear child, not for your sake."" 
Then, before she could be frightened : " I 
came to see you, but it was for my own 
sake." 

Her hand on my arm, her eyes cast down 
while mine were bent on her flushed cheek, 
we walked tlie street in silence. There 
was small need of words. At last, she said:; 



W-, 






H** 










THE GATE. 



CHRIST WAS BORN TO-DAT. 



417- 



"Let us go to the post-office; mamma 
expects letters." 

" If I took you there, I should put a worse 
stigma on you than ever." 

Then I told her the "Pinkerton" incident 
and we had a hearty laugh which "broke 
the ice " of romantic sentiment and — and — 
and Middletown was the very first halting- 
place on our wedding journey! 

How long ago was this? A year? An 
age? What good has gone from me? Why 
do I see no more, even in dreams, that 
gentle, loving, truthful, trustful face, that 
seemed to find no sunshine except in my 
eyes? Is it better to have loved and lost 
than never to have loved ? 

Yes, yes, yes. When those fevered arms 
and hands were burning their way from my 
neck to my heart, and because of the 
untimeliness of my bereavement I was curs- 
ing the day I was born, she suddenly cried 



out: "How long I have had you! How 
long I have had you !" 

She said it so often that otkers perhaps 
thought her delirious ; but I knew that her 
passing soul was illuminated with the light 
of truth. Even a year — every year — of 
perfect wedlock is long, if it is measured by 
the happiness it includes. Precious is the 
memory of those last words, for they prove 
to me that, faulty as I am, I made her happy 
in our own short union. She did not even 
think of the little one; only of me — of poor 
imperfect me, her husband. 

So goes on time and tide, I find enough to 
do in remembering the past and in watching 
the world. I hope — ardently I hope — that 
my daughter will be like her mother to the 
turn of a hair — every line, every curve, every 
tint. But I fear, from the present outlook, 
that " the fatal gift of beauty " is her lot 
and portioH in life. 



CHRIST WAS BORN TO-DAY. 



By Yetta Aaron 

CHRISTMAS morning 
dawned bright and beautiful. 
The sunshine danced merrily 
over the snow-covered streets and 
made the icicles hanging from the 
bows of the trees and window-sills gleam and 
glitter with many changing, beautiful colors. 
Plenty of noise there was — blowing of 
horns, whirring of rattles, and beating of drums. Boys 
were out shouting and hurrahing — dashing along on their 
new gaily-painted sleds. Little girls well wrapped up in 
woolens and furs ran from house to house, telling their play- 
mates, with beaming eyes, of the wonderful gifts dear old Santa 
Claus had brought the night before; and servant maids called 




4iS 



CHRIST WAS BORN TO-DAT. 



cheerfully to each other, " Merry Christ- 
mas! Merry Christmas! " The whole city 
seemed full of mirth and fun. 

But, alas! All was not merry in the 
great city. In the back attic room of a 
miserable house in a dirty down-town street 
there was no laughter, no gifts from Santa 
Claus. A pale, hollow-eyed man lay on a 
straw mattress in one corner of the uncar- 
peted room. A sad-faced woman sat at the 
two-paned window, stitching at some coarse 
garment she was making, while two pretty 
little children, a girl and a boy, stood beside 
her, each munching a crust of dry bread. 
There ■was utter silence among them until 
the sound of bells came stealing gently into 
the wretched room. 

"Christmas morning," said the sick man 
as he raised his head from the pillow to 
listen. "I can hear the chimes. They are 
playing the very hymn my mother used to 
sing when I was a little boy. ' Merry 
Christmas!' 'Tisn't very merry for us, 
wife. When I had plenty of work and 
good wages we had many friends. But 
now that I am sick and we are almost 
starving, they've all forgotten us." 

"Has Santa Claus forgotten us, too?" 
here broke in the little boy. " He didn't 
bring us the least thing." 

" Me no dollie," said the blue-eyed girl, 
with a trembling lip. 

The poor mother tried to smile so that 
the little ones might not notice the tears in 
her eyes as she answered: "Yes, Charley, 
I'm afraid the old fellow has quite forgotten 
you and sister May this time. But never 
mind ; let us hope that next Christmas he 
will bring you something to make up for it." 

" But why," persisted the boy, "don't he 
remember poor chilluns?" 

" Not as poor as you are," said the father, 
bitterly. " You see, my boy, many people 
forget itis Christmas because Christ was born 
to-day, and so they feast and make merry, 
never thinking of the sick and starving." 



" But Christ loved poor people and little 
chilluns," said Charley. 

"Yes, Charley dear," answered his 
mother; "the dear Savior loved poor people 
best; but don't talk any more to papa now, 
he is tired and must sleep," and rising, she 
knelt down by the sick man and took his 
thin hand in hers. 

"Don't be cast down, John," she said; 
"you are getting better, though slowly, and 
that is much to be thankful for. And my 
sewing, poorly as I am paid for it, will at 
least keep us alive until you are able to work 
again." As she was speaking the children 
quietly left the room, Charley leading his 
little sister by the hand. 

"Were you doin'?" asked May, as he 
hurried her down-stairs and out of the street 
door. 

" To find some of the people that have for- 
gotten Christ was born to-day, cause if we 
can find 'em and tell 'em about it, p'r'aps it'll 
all come right. I know a big church where 
there will be lots of folks, and I'm goin' 
there." So the two poor little things wended 
their way to the big church and stood at the 
door until the congregation was dismissed. 
Charley looked eagerly into the faces of the 
people as they came flocking out. "None 
o' them has forgot," he said in a few 
moments. " They look too solemn." 

Just then a stout old gentleman stepped 
from the church door, and, slipping on the 
icy pavement, came near falling. "Ha! ha! 
ha!" he burst into a merry laugh. "Came 
near going down that time ; only saved 
myself, that's all." 

"Christ was born to-day," said a childish 
voice near him. 

"What, hey?" said the old gentleman, 
turning round and facing Charley. " I know 
it, my boy. Merry Christmas, and here's a 
stamp for you," holding out 50 cents. 

"You didn't forget, then?" asked Charley. 

"Forget what?" said the old gentleman. 

" That Christ was born to-day." 



CHRIST WAS BORN TO-DAY 



419 



"Why, bless your heart, no! What in 
the world do you mean by asking that?" 

"Father said we had nothin' to eat 'cause 
lots o' people forgot it. And Santa Claus 
forgot us, too," added Charley after a pause. 

"Me no dollie," said May, shyly raising 
her blue eyes to the kind face of the 
stranger and letting them fall again instantly. 

" Bless my heart," said the old gentleman, 
" this is very strange. Where is your father, 
my boy?" 

"He's sick in bed. He wasn't always 
sick, though. He was a carpenter once, and 
■we had lots of good things, and last Christ- 
mas Santa Claus brought me a rocking- 
horse. It's sold now." 

" Me a dollie ; she's broke now," said May. 

" Bless my heart!" said the old gentleman, 
again. " So your father thinks a great many 
people forget why it is Christmas day? 
Take me home with you, my boy; I should 
like to see this father of yours." 

" Mother, too?" asked Charley. 

" Of course, and mother, too." 

" Nice muzzer," said little May. 

" I don't doubt it," said the old gentleman, 
and away they went, people looking after 
them in wonder; for you see the old gentle- 
man was dressed very fine and the children 
weren't dressed at all, unless you call rags 
clothing, which I don't believe you do. 

A few minutes brought them to the door 
of the miserable room where Charley lived. 
His mother started with surprise when she 
saw the stranger and hastily arose and 
offered him the only chair. 

"Sit down again, sit down again," said 
the old gentleman, cheerfully. " I want to 
speak to Charley's father." 

The sick man turned his face toward him. 

" I have not forgotten that Christ was 
burn to-day, my friend," said the old gentle- 
iiian, " neither have I forgotten He was the 
son of a carpenter, and His lot was cast 
among the poor and lowly, and, so I have 
come to help and cheer you." 



" God bless you!" said Charley's mother, 
while tears of joy rolled down her cheeks. 

" Not a word, not a word," said the old 
gentleman, as the sick man tried to speak. 
" I'm going out to look for Santa Claus. 
He's never forgotten you in the world. 
He's made a mistake in the number, that's 
all." And, with a merry twinkle in his 
eyes, he departed, but to return again very 
soon — this time with the grocery boy from 
around the corner, and the basket that 
grocery boy carried was so big he could 
scarcely squeeze it through the doorway, and 
it was well filled. I haven't time to tell you 
all that was in it. And so for the old gen- 
tlemen. What do you think he had? In 
one hand a golden-haired, blue-eyed doll for 
May, in the other a pair of bright, new 
skates for Charley. 

"Bless your heart!" he said, as the little 
girl held up her pretty mouth to kiss him. 
" You'll have a merry Christmas, after all. 
I'm so glad you went to the church door, 
Charley, though I hadn't forgotten, of 
course not. God sent yoti straight to me, 
my boy, that you might show me the way 
to this poor room. Remember that; always 
remember that And now make yourselves 
as comfortable as you can, and I'll be here 
again to-morrow. Good-by. Merry Christ- 
mas!" And away bustled the old gentleman 
again, leaving " faith, hope, and charity " 
behind him. 

There were two Christmas dinners in 
town that day that were very different. 
The old gentleman went to his well-spread 
table, around which his family and a select 
circle of invited guests sat down to a 
sumptuous entertainment. But part of the 
contents of the grocery basket made a meal 
in that scantily furnished upper room, 
around which the half-famished little com- 
pany who came so near being forgotten by 
Santa Claus had a grander entertainment. 
It does not require much to give poor folks 
a " Merry Christmas " after all. 



I\20 



THE MOTHER'S OPPORTUNITT. 



THE MOTHER'S OPPORTUNITY. 

MOTHERS, you are the divinely-ap- 
pointed teachers and guides of your 
children ; and any attempt to free 
yourselves from your duty is in direct oppo- 
sition to the will of God. If you neglect 
them, the consequences are swift and sure, 
and how fearful they are, let those broken- 
hearted mothers tell who have bowed in 
anguish over their lost sons; who, neglect- 
ing them in childhood, have at last seen 
them dead to every manly virtue. 

Let me say to you who still have the 
opportunity to do so, train your children, 
whether boys or girls, to usefulness. Give 
them something to do. And as soon as they 
can walk, teach them to bring any little 
thing to you, and as they grow older, let 
them do all they can to help you. Spend 
most of your time with your young children. 
Sleep near them; attend to washing and 
dressing them ; let them eat at the taole 
with father and mother; read, talk, play, 
walk with them ; be their companion and 
guide in all things and at all times. When 
the father can leave his work to take a little 
recreation, let him take it with the children, 
making it a special holiday. Don't be in 
haste to send them to school, but teach them 
at home. Oral instruction can be given 
while you are doing your work, and for a 
while will be of much more benefit than 
many hours of study. As soon as they want 
playmates, see that they have those of their 
own age, who have been well cared for at 
home, and are truthful. Let them play in 
or near the house, that you may observe the 
character of their intercourse. Never send 
children to school to get rid of the care or 
trouble of them at home, but when the right 
time comes, let them see that it is wholly 
for their good that you part with them. If 
possible, go often to the school-room your- 
self — nothing gives children so much en- 
couragement. Always allow them to tell you 
all that has happened to interest or annoy 



them while absent from home. Never think 
anything which affects the happiness of your 
children too small a matter to claim your at- 
tention. Use every means in your power to 
win and retain their confidence. Do not 
rest satisfied without some account of each 
day's joys or sorrows. It is a source of 
great comfort to the innocent child to tell all 
its troubles to mother, and do you lend a 
willing ear. For know you, that as soon as 
they cease to tell you all these things, they 
have chosen other confidants, and thereia 
lies the danger. O mother! this is the rock 
on which your son may be wrecked at last» 
I charge you to set a watch upon it. Be 
jealous of the first sign that he is not open- 
ing all his heart to you. 

Boys who are thus cared for and trained 
find more to please and amuse them at home 
than away. They are thus saved from 
temptation. But if they are neglected until 
they arrive at the age when they would 
wish to go out evenings, there is small hope 
that any but arbitrarj/' measures will prevent 
or secure obedience, and then it hardly caa 
be called obedience. It is inuch more pleas- 
ant to apply the "ounce of prevention" than 
the "pound of cure" in such cases. When 
boys know that their society is valued highly 
at home, and tliat all its pleasures are marred 
by their absence, they will willingly stay if 
they can have something to occupy their 
time. — Anonymous. 



MOTHERS, PUT YOUR CHILDREN 
TO BED. 

THERE may be some mothers who feet 
it to be a self-denial to leave their par- 
lors, or firesides, or work, to put 
their children to bed. They think that the 
nurse could do just as well; that it is of no- 
consequence who " hears the children say 
their prayers." Now, setting aside the 
pleasure of opening the little bed and tucking 



THE GOOD-NIGHT KISS. 



A23 



the darling up, there are really important 
reasons why the mother should not yield this 
privilege to anyone. In the first place, it is 
the time of all times when a child is inclined 
to show its confidence and affection. All its 
little secrets come out with more truth and 
less restraints; its naughtiness through the 
day can be reproved and talked over with 
less excitement, and with the tenderness and 
calmness necessary to make a permanent 
impression. If the little one has shown a 
desire to do well and be obedient, its efforts 
and success can be acknowledged and com- 
mended in a manner that need not render it 
vain or self-satisfied. 

We must make it a habit to talk to our 
children, in order to get from them an 
expression of their feelings. We can not 
understand the character of these little beings 
Committed to our care unless we do. And if 
we do not know what they are, w^e shall not 
be able to govern them wisely, or educate 
them as their different natures demand. 
Certainly it would be unwise to excite young 
children by too much conversation with them 
just before putting them to bed. 

Every mother who carefully studies the 
temperament of her children will know how 
to manage them in this respect. But of this 
all mothers may be assured, that the last 
words at night are of great importance, even 
to the babies of the flock; the very tones of 
the voice they last listened to make an im- 
pression upon their sensitive organizations. 
Mothers, do not think the time and strength 
wasted which you spend in reviewing the 
day with your little boy or girl; do not neg- 
lect to teach it how to pray, and pray for it in 
simple and earnest language, which it can 
understand. Soothe and quiet its little 
heart after the experiences of the day. It 
has had its disappointments and trials as well 
as its play and pleasures; it is ready to throw 
its arms around your neck, and take its good- 
night kiss. — Mother's Magazine, 



A 



THE GOOD-NIGHT KISS. 

yY LWAYS send your little child to bed 
happy. Whatever cares may trouble 
your mind, give the dear child a 
warm good-night kiss as it goes to its pillow. 
The memory of this, in the stormy yeara 
which may be in store for the little one, will 
be like Bethlehem's star to the bewildered 
shepherds; and welling up in the heart will 
rise the thought: "My father, my mother 
— loved tne!'''' Lips parched with fever will 
become dewy again at this thrill of useful 
memories. Kiss your little child before it 
goes to sleep. — Anonytnous. 



HOME SHADOWS. 

FRIENDS, I wonder whether we have 
any deep consciousness of the shadows 
we are weaving about our children in 
the home; whether we ever ask ourselves if, 
in the far future, when we are dead and gone, 
the shadow our home casts now will stretch 
over them for bane or blessing. It is pos- 
sible we are full of anxiety to do our best, 
and to make our homes sacred to the chil- 
dren. We want them to come up right, to 
turn out good men and women, to be an 
honor and praise to the home out of which 
they sprang. But this is the pity and the 
danger, that, while we may not come short 
in any real duty of father and mother, we 
may yet cast no healing and sacramental 
shadow over the child. Believe me, friends, 
it was not in the words He said, in the press- 
ure of the hand, in the kiss, that the bless- 
ing lay Jesus gave to the little ones, when He 
took them in His arms. So it is not in these, 
but in the shadow of my innermost, holiest 
self; in that which is to us what the perfume 
is to the flower, a soul within the sou' — it is 
that which, to the child, and in the home, is 



424 



LITTLE TROUBLES. 



more than the tongue of men or angels, or 
prophecy or knowledge, or faith that will 
move mountains, or devotion that will give 
the body to be burned. I look back with 
"wonder on that old time and ask myself 
how it is that most of the things I suppose 
my father and mother built on especially to 
mold me to a right manhood are forgotten 
and lost out of my life. But the thing they 
hardly ever thought of — the shadow of 
blessing cast by the home; the tender, 
unspoken love; the sacrifices made, and 
never thought of, it was so natural to make 
them; ten thousand little things, so simple 
■as to attract no notice, and yet so sublime as 
I look back at them, they fill my heart still 
and always with tenderness, when I remem- 
ber them, and my eyes with tears. All these 
thmgs, and all that belong to them, still 
come over me, and cast the shadow that 
forty years, many of them lived in a new 
world, can not destroy. 

I fcj few parents know what a supreme 
and holy tnu g is this shadow cast by the 
nome, over, rspecially, the first seven years 
of this life '>t the child. 1 think the influ- 
ence that comes in this way is the very 
breath and bread of life. I may do other 
things for duty or principle or religious 
training they are all, by comparison, as 
when I cut and trim and train a vine; and, 
when I let the sun shine and the rain fall on 
it, the one may aid the life, the other is the 
life. Steel and string are each good in 
their place; but what are they to sunshine? 
It is said that a child, hearing once of 
heaven, and that his father would be there, 
replied, "Oh! then, 1 dinna want to gang." 
He did but express the holy instinct of a 
child, to whom the father may be all that is 
good, except just goodness, be all any child 
can want, except what is indispensable — that 
gracious atmosphere of blessing in the heal- 
ing shadow it casts, without which even 
lieaven would come to be intolerable. 



LITTLE TROUBLES. 

ALTHOUGH general sympathy over- 
looks small miseries, individuals find 
it worth their while to take them 
into account ; for the whole history of some 
people is but a long record of trifling vex- 
ations and suffering — trifling when taken 
singly, but overwhelming when taken in 
the mass. It may not seem a great thing to 
have a constantly nagging companion, or 
boots that always hurt your corns, or linen 
that is never properly starched; or to have 
to read crossed letters, or go to stupid 
parties, or consult books without indexes — 
but to the sufferer they are very tangible 
oppressions, and, in our short space of work- 
ing life, not to be made light of. 

Of course, if we were all cast in hei-oic 
molds, we should despise such petty aggra- 
vations; but the world does not turn on 
heroic principles; it is useless to tell a fret- 
ful, worried man that his trials are '■'■ab- 
surd;" and do not think you have effected a 
cure when you have let that drop of boiling 
oil fall upon his wounds. "Absurd?" His 
own common sense has already told him so 
and that is the very thing that aggravates 
his annoyance. 

It is equal] V useless to remind such suf- 
ferers that "•x jhey lived with a proper esti- 
mate of the present and future before them, 
they could bear these little trials with a calm 
and decent philosophy." Perhaps so! but I 
have seen these same philosophers strongly 
moved by little disappointments in meals, or 
weather, that affected themselves; nay, even 
by such trifling causes as cold shaving- 
water, or a want of buttons. Most plat- 
itudes of this kind are affectations; and the 
men who pretend to despise little troubles 
are the very men who exaggerate them. 

There are, indeed, some characters who 
have the clneerfulness of fine summer morn- 
ings; everything about them laughs and 



LITTLE TROUBLES. 



425 



sings, even their tears have the lustre of a 
iresh shower. But there are other natures 
equally fine in a contrary direction, whose 
excessive sensibility makes them the instru- 
ment upon which every circumstance plays. 
I am going now to make a confession of 
one of these little troubles — one which will 
doubtless seem puerile to many, but which 
I know tens of thousands suffer keenly from 
— I mean the tyranny of the atmosphere. 
When a foggy day or a spiteful east wind 
attacks us, or when there is no blue sky to 
speak to us of heaven, we are depressed, and 
full of inexpressible languors. Our work 
falls from our hands, our inability irritates 
us, our whole human nature suffers with the 
physical world. 

"What nonsense! Man as an immortal 
soul ought to float above this terrestrial at- 
mosphere." Ah, yes! but though we envy 
the strength of such natures as are always 
equable, we can not imitate them. And we 
do not want them to tell us that such de- 
pressions are "imaginary," and "ought to be 
resisted ;" we do resist them, and this 
very struggle assures us of their reality, for 
in it we feel the difficulty of measuring our- 
selves against its influence. 

Any system of philosophy is too big for 
the average man — yes, for the Christian 
man — which overlooks the terrible reality 
of " little troubles." 

It is not the great bowlders, but the small 
pebbles on the road, that bring the traveling 
horse on his knees; and it is the petty annoy- 
ances of life, ever present, to be met and 
conquered afresh every day, that try most 
severely the metal of which we are made. 
And when we are in the very thick of such 
a fight, how often are we met with that 
aggravating little bit of sympathy that "it 
will be all the same a hundred years hence." 
There is no comfort in a dictum so mock- 
ing and so untrue. It does not touch the 
question at all; and it is not true. For 
nothing happens for nothing; and whether 



we did or did not do a certain thing, or 
whether we got or did not get another, may 
have very important consequences, even a 
hundred years hence. Besides, this kind of 
consolation, carried out to its logical con- 
clusion, would take every honest and honor- 
able purpose out of life. A man could 
easily persuade himself by it, that whether 
he did his duty or not, whether he earned 
his bread or stole it, would be "all the same 
a hundred years hence." We don't live for 
a hundred years hence, we are here to do 
to-dayfs duty, and whatever helps us best 
to-day is the help we need. 

What are we then to do with these ever- 
recurring little trials, from which we see no 
release this side of the grave? Do not let 
us blink matters. Our friends grow weary 
of them. Smitten by the same blows, we 
go on repeating the same cries, and this 
monotony is hard to bear with. Friendship 
tnat can overlook our faults wears out with 
our complaints. The sympathy that finds 
us every morning just as it leaves us every 
night, can no more maintain its life than 
flames can burn in a vacuum. " To whom 
then shall we go?" Go to that divine 
Friend whose pierced hands have so often 
raised us up. It was not to the unhappy 
Jesus forbade " repetitions." We may im- 
portune him without fear; we may tell him 
all, and tell it every day. 

But will He care for such small troubles 
as harass our little affairs, and let out our 
life, as it were, by multitudes of pin-pricks? 
Yes, for our God is not a God who only 
occupies Himself with weighty matters. He 
is no overtasked being who sits afar off, and 
abandons the care of every-day trials and 
interests to inferior agents. He is a God to 
whom everything is little, and everything is 
great, who counts one poor human soul of 
more value than a world, who numbers the 
hairs of our heads, and counts our tears. 
We can never weary God, and nothing that 
gives us an anxious thought or a weary 
feeling is beneath His notice. 



426 



THE POWER OF INFLUENCE. 



These little trials are the soul's drill and 
discipline. We make our lives, as we sew 
— stitch by stitch ; often wearily enough, 
often faint and discouraged, but persever- 
ance in well-doing always touches the heart 
of God, who seems to say at the last, 
« That -will do ! " 



THE POWER OF INFLUENCE. 

INFLUENCE is the power we exert 
over others 03' our thoughts, words, and 
actions — by our lives, in short. It is a 
silent, a pervading, a magnetic, and a most 
wonderful thing. It works in inexplicable 
ways. We neither see nor hear it, yet, con- 
sciously, or unconsciously, we exert it. No 
one can think or speak or act — no one can 
live — without influencing others. We all 
sometimes seem unconscious of this very 
important fact, and appear to have adopted 
the strange idea that what we do or think or 
say can affect no one but ourselves. You 
influence others and mold their characters 
and destinies for time and for eternity far 
more extensively than you imagine. The 
whole truth in this matter might flatter you; 
it would certainly astonish yo ! if you could 
once grasp it in its full proporao'->.s. It was a 
remark of Samuel J. Mills that "No young 
man should live in the nineteenth century 
without making his influence felt around the 
globe." At first thought that seems a heavy 
contract for any young man to take. As we 
come to apprehend more clearly the immut- 
able laws of God's moral universe we find 
that this belting of the globe by his influence 
is just what every responsible being does — 
too often, alas, unconsciously. You have 
seen the telephone, that wonderful instru- 
ment which so accurately transmits the sound 
of the human voice so many miles. How 
true it is that all these wonderful modern 
inventions are only faint reflections of some 



grand and eternal law of the moral universe 
of God! God's great telephone — I say it 
reverently — is everywhere — filling earth and 
air and sea, and sending round the world 
with unerring accurac3',and for a blessing or 
a curse, every thought of your heart, every 
word that falls thoughtfully^ or thoughtlessly 
from your lips, and every act you do. It is 
time you awoke to the conviction that, 
whether you would have it so or not, your 
influence is world-wide for good or for evil. 
Which.? 

There is another immense fact which you 
or I may as well look squarely in the face. 
An influence ?iever dies. Once born it lives 
forever. In one of his lyrics, Longfellow 
beautifully illustrates this great truth: 

" I shot an arrow in the air, 
It fell to earth, I knew not where; 
* :it * * * 

I breathed a song into the air, 

It fell on earth, I knew not where; 

41. -^ % -if. -^ 

Long, long afterwards, in an oak 
I found the arrow, etiU unbroke; 
And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend." 

No thought, no word, no act of man ever 
dies. They are as immortal as his own soul. 
He will be sure to find them written some- 
where. Somewhere in this world he will 
meet their fruits in part; somewhere in the 
future life he will meet their gathered har- 
vest. It may, and it may not, be a pleasant 
one to look upon. 

An influence not only lives forever, but 
it keeps on growing as long as it lives. 
There never comes a time when it reaches 
its maturity and when its growth is arrested. 
The influence which you start into life to- 
day in the family, the neighborhood, or the 
social circle, is perhaps very small now, very 
little cared for now ; but it will roll forward 
through the ages, growing wider and deeper 
and stronger with every passing hour, and 
blighting or blessing as it rolls. — Christian 
Weekly. 



CLE OFATRA. 



427 




■'=^^F^ 



CLEOPATRA. 



THE poet who has dwelt with delight 
upon the charms and follies of Cleo- 
patra, and the historian whose periods 
have grown eloquent as he depicted her 
graces and lamented the weakness with 
which they were allied, have referred to 
them more as the causes which produced 
the downfall of the Egyptian monarchy 
than as the effects of that national degen- 
eracy which preceded it. Historic truth does 
not warrant the conclusion that Egypt was 
overthrown for the sake of Cleopatra. It is 
enough that she presided, as it were, over 
the catastrophe which she could not avert, 
to invest it with the attractions of romance. 
The seeds of dissolution were not, in fact, 
planted by her hand — she but neglected to 
check their growth. Under her auspices, 
the last days of the monarchy were spent in 
excess and voluptuousness, instead of the 
misery and confusion of a hopeless and pro- 
tracted warfare. One after another of the 
Roman generals who designed to wrest 
from her the kingdom she had inherited, 
was made captive by her beauty, and in 
her embraces forgot the " high ambition " 
which had before been his mistress; and it 
was only when that beauty had faded, and 
could no longer ensnare, that Egypt, whose 



glory and splendor had once been unri- 
valed, was humbled in the dust. The beauty 
and the love of Cleopatra had preserved 
for a season, but they did not secure the 
independence of her country; and the same 
hour that witnessed the overthrow of the 
one, beheld the failure of the other. 

Cleopatra was born about the year 68 
B. C. Her father had ascended the throne 
of Egypt under the patronage of the 
Roman Senate. 

Auletes had two sons and three daughters. 
But two of his daughters survived him ; the 
eldest, whose name was Berenice, was put 
to death by her father, because she had worn 
the crown, and assumed the royal authority, 
during his exile. By his will, therefore, 
he left the government of Egypt to his 
eldest son and his second daughter — the 
latter being the renowned Cleopatra. He 
also directed, in accordance with the usage 
of the Alexandrian court, that they should 
marry together and reign jointly. As both 
were minors, they were placed under the 
guardianship of the Roman Senate, by 
whom Pompey was selected to fulfill the 
duties of the office. 

At the time of her father's death, Cleo- 
patra had nearly reached her seventeenth 



42S 



CLEOPA TRA. 



year — that season of poetry and love. She 
stood just upon the threshold of woman- 
hood — the faultless outlines of the gh-1 
■wanting but the filling- up to perfect a form 
unmatched among Egyptian maidens for 
symmetry and grace. She was tall of stat- 
ure, and queenly in gait and appearance. 
Her features were regular, and every limb 
finely molded, though yet lacking the round 
and voluptuous fullness of her ripened 
beauty. The warm sun of that southern 
clime had tinged her cheek with a hue of 
brown, but her complexion was clear and 
pure as the serene sky that smiled above 
her head, and distinctly traced beneath it 
were the delicate veins filled with the rich 
blood that danced so wildly, when inflamed 
with hate, or heated with desire. 

Her eyes and hair were like jet, and glossy 
as the raven's plume. The former were 
large, and, as was characteristic of her race, 
apparently half shut and slightly turned up 
at the outer angles, thus adding a great deal 
to the naturally arch expression of her 
countenance; but they were full, too, of 
brilliancy and fire. Her silken ringlets fell 
in long, flowing masses down the stately 
neck, and over the snowy throat, and the 
polished shoulders, and the wavy bosom 
where 'Love delighted to make his pillow. 
Both nose and chin were small, but fashioned 
as with all the nicety of the sculptor's art; 
and her pearly teeth nestled between the 
coral lips. 

But her beauty was not all mere comeli- 
ness of form and feature. To the witchery 
of Venus she added something of the dig- 
nity of Juno. Beside the personal charms 
she possessed the most exquisite mental 
gifts. Her countenance was expressive, and 
her dark, sparkling eyes beamed with intel- 
ligence. With a fondness for philosophy, 
she united a love of letters as rare as it was 
attractive; and in the companionship of 
scholars and poets, her mind expanded as 
she added to its priceless stores of wealth. 



She was not only familiar with the neroic 
tales and traditions, with the poetic myths 
and chronicles, and the religious legends of 
ancient Chemia; but she was well versed, 
too, in the literature and science of Phoenicia 
and Chaldasa, of Greece and Rome. Of 
both the Greek and the Latin tongue she 
was a complete mistress. 

In the lighter accomplishments, she was 
not deficient. She possessed a fine taste, 
wrhich had been highly cultivated. The 
female graces for which Miletus was so 
widely famed, beautified and adorned her 
character. Her skill in music found none 
to equal it. Her voice itself was perfect 
melody, and when breathed through the 
soft tibia, fell upon the listening ear with a 
magic power. 

She was eloquent and imaginative, witty 
and animated. Her conversation, therefore, 
was charming; and if she exhibited caprice, 
which she sometimes did, it was forgotten in 
the inimitable grace of her manner. 

Had she not been fond of pleasure, she 
would have constituted an exception to the 
times. She loved to mingle the intellectual 
with the sensual. There had been a reaction 
in the social condition of the Egyptian 
people — the sacerdotal power was dimin- 
ished — the influence of their strange religion 
was weakened — the prejudice of caste was 
not felt to the same extent as formerly — 
refinement had taken the place of austerity, 
and licentiousness that of gloomy formalism. 
This change commenced with her father's 
reign, and her character was formed by the 
circumstances that surrounded her. 

Her vices were those of the age; her 
virtues, few though they may have been, 
were cherished in spite of it. She was 
superstitious; but superstition was then 
religion. She was cruel ; but cruelty was 
the besetting sin of nations and individuals. 
She was selfish — why should she not have 
been selfish, with enemies plotting and con- 
spiring against her at her father's court, and 




¥~^^-5^ 



ON PICKET. 



CLEOPA TRA. 



431 



seeking in every way to compass her de- 
struction? She was ambitious — but when 
were the sons or daughters of kings and 
princes without ambition? She possessed 
strong and ardent passions, which she rarely 
attempted to control; but they were the 
only feelings she was at liberty to gratify — 
she was formed to love, and be loved in 
return, but both the law and her religion 
forbade the indulgence of an honest affec- 
tion. 

Such was the youthful queen of Egypt 
when she ascended the throne of her father, 
not as sole mistress, but enjoying a divided 
empire, and coupled, too, with a condition — 
that of her marriage with her brother, who 
was still younger than herself — from which 
she revolted, less from principle, indeed, 
than for the reason that its fulfillment was 
abhorrent to her inclinations. A mutual 
dislike seems to have been early formed 
between them ; and the flame was indus- 
triously fanned by the designing counselors 
and favorites of young Ptolemy. Not less 
ambitious than his sister and wife, but her 
inferior in talents, in accomplishments, and 
in every attribute necessary to maintain the 
dignity appropriate to his position, he was 
but the tool and creature of abler and more 
designing men. 

The strong aversion conceived for each 
other by the royal pair was soon changed to 
the most rancorous hate. The Egyptian 
people were by no means favorable to the 
rule of a female sovereign, and this national 
prejudice contributed a great deal to 
strengthen the influence of the king's ad- 
visers. While the joint power remained in 
the hands of Cleopatra, they could do noth- 
ing — she was too intelligent to be a dupe, 
too ambitious to acknowledge a superior — 
and, therefore, it became their aim and 
object to deprive her of her share in the 
sovereignty. Their plans, for the time, 
•were successful. 

But it was not in the nature of Cleopatra 



to submit. She claimed her rights, -vvith a 
boldness and spirit which, among any other 
people, would have aroused a general and 
irrepressible feeling of enthusiasm in her 
favor; but the prejudices of the populace 
were stimulated and aroused by the artful 
ministers, and they, too, joined in the cry 
against her. Too proud to compromise her 
dignity, by a surrender of her authority, she 
was nevertheless forced to yield tc the 
tide of popular fury. But the heroic heart 
that beat in her bosom was unsubdued. 
Obliged to fly from Egypt, she hastened to 
Palestine and Syria, to collect an army that 
might enable her to recover the heritage of 
which she had been deprived. 

During this time assassinations were 
frequent; violence usurped the place of 
justice; and crime went unpunished. 

After a time, the fair refugee had nearly 
completed her preparations, and was about 
to return to Egypt to maintain her right to 
the throne by force of arms. Having re- 
ceived the summons of Caesar to appoint 
some person to plead her cause before him 
she determined to obey, and become her 
own advocate. Fearing he might be preju- 
diced, she resolved to seek a private inter- 
view with him. 

Lest her approach should be suspected, 
and means be taken to prevent any commu- 
nication with the Roman general, she sailed 
from Syria in a frail skiff, attended but by a 
single friend, a Greek. Csesar himself had 
not dared to venture out to sea, on account 
of the prevalence of the winds; but nothing 
daunted her buoyant soul. It was a high 
stake in peril — her crown and kingdom — 
everything to her. Each moment was preg- 
nant with danger, and the dark waters of 
the Mediterranean frowned gloomily upon 
her; yet she knew not what it was to fear, 
for wind and wave seemed but to throb in 
unison with the wild, fierce passions that 
sustained her. 

Arrived off the harbor of Alexandria, she 



432 



CLEOPATRA. 



found that it would be impossible to effect 
a landing in safety, and to avoid spies her 
woman's wit and cunning served her well. 
Having procured some cloths and fabrics, 
such as were brought for sale by foreign 
merchants, she spread them out, and laid 
herself upon them. Following her direc- 
tions, her faithful attendant wound them 
about her person, and then tied the bundle 
with a thong in the same manner as packages 
of goods were secured. 

Thus hidden from stranger eyes, she was 
conveyed in the dusk of evening to the 
quarters of the Roman commander. In an- 
swer to all inquiries, he said he bore a present 
for Csesar. 

Then he unloosed the package, and there 
sprang forth, like Venus from the waves of 
Ocean, a woman robed in beauty such as 
poet never dreamed, nor sculptor's art could 
fashion. The matchless queen of Egypt 
stood before him; her disordered apparel 
but half concealing the matured charms of 
twenty summers; her unbound tresses float- 
ing to her feet; her olive-brown cheek 
tinged with blushes, and her dark eyes 
beaming with anxiety and hope. 

She came, she saw, and conquered. He 
was unprepared for so much loveliness, and 
it filled him with surprise. Her charming 
conversation, her sparkling vivacity and wit, 
increased the fascinating influence whose 
spell was on him, and he yielded, without an 
effort of resistance, to its power. 

It was nothing strange that the attachment 
should be reciprocated by the Egyptian 
queen. Csesar manfully supported the 
cause of Cleopatra which he had espoused, 
and by repeated exposures of his own per- 
son to danger and peril, for her sake, 
awakened in her bosom still more powerful 
feelings of affection and regard. He prose- 
cuted the war with his accustomed vigor, 
and it finally ended in the overthrow and 
death of Ptolemy, and the general recog- 
nition of the authority of Cleopatra. 



From this time, and until aft !r the death 
of Caesar, the reign of Cleopatra was not 
disturbed by foreign war or internal com- 
motions. Her power was firmly estab- 
lished, and no one disputed her authority. 
During the minority of her brother, she ad- 
ministered the government alone, with a 
skill and ability not unworthy of the race 
from which she sprung. Though too much 
devoted to pleasure and gaiety, she was not 
without ambition. She conciliated the favor 
of her subjects by her attention to their in- 
terests, by the encouragement of commerce 
and the arts, and the restoration of the capi- 
tal to its former splendor. Under the power- 
ful protection of the first man in Rome, 
none dared to molest her — kings and princes 
courted her alliance, and stood in awe of her 
name. It was, perhaps, a frail tenure — the 
will of Csesar — by which she held the sceptre; 
but it was, also, the sole alternative of abso- 
lute submission to the Roman rule. Egypt was 
already doomed. Nature had made her the 
granary of the world and she was too valuable 
a prize to be either overlooked or forgotten. 

It had been the original intention of 
Caesar to bring Cleopatra to Rome, and 
there to marry her. For that purpose, he 
had solicited a friend to propose a law to the 
people, allowing a Roman citizen to marry 
as many wives as he thought fit. 

But nothing had been done when he 
returned to Rome. Opposition to his proj- 
ect being anticipated, no further steps were 
taken, though he continued as deeply enam- 
ored with her as ever, and many tender 
messages were wont to pass between them. 
Had he lived, and attained the imperial 
power, it is not improbable that she would 
have become his wife; and certainly, in one 
respect — as the two most conspicuous per- 
sonages in the world — they would have 
been fitly mated. She the bride of Caesar — 
Caesar Emperor of Rome — what might 
have been the fate of both ! what the destiny 
of " the Niobe of nations ! " 



CLEOPATRA. 



433 



Events now followed each other in rapid 
succession. Cleopatra did not soon forget 
her love for Caesar. She visited him at 
Rome, became an inmate of his palace, and 
usurped the place which his wife should 
have occupied. But her hopes of an alliance 
with him, in which he probably shared, 
were suddenly frustrated by his assassina- 
tion. The Roman people did not regard 
her with favor, and she returned forthwith 
to Egypt. Disappointed in the daring 
object of her heart, she resolved to reign 
alone, and v^^as not disposed to share her 
throne with a husband forced upon her 
acceptance. When her younger brother, 
therefore, having reached the age of four- 
teen years, claimed his share of the regal 
power, she removed him by poison, and was 
thenceforth sole mistress of the realm. 

Her court, like that of her father, was 
distinguished alike for its refinement and its 
voluptuousness. She was the patron, both 
of learning and of love. The fame of her 
wit and beauty was noised abroad, and 
Alexandria became the favorite resort of 
travelers. To all she gave a cordial wel- 
come, whether philosophers and men of 
letters, or gay gallants in quest of pleas- 
ure. 

It would seem that Cleopatra hesitated, at 
first, whether to ally herself with the Tri- 
umvirate, or with the party of Brutus and 
Cassius. Her sympathies were unquestion- 
ably with the friends of Ctesar; but while it 
remained in doubt which was the stronger 
faction, the safety of her kingdom and her- 
self appeared to require that she should not 
give offense to either. Her hesitation, how- 
ever, was not of long continuance. Fore- 
seeing the ultimate triumph of the powerful 
party headed by Antony, she refused her 
aid to Cassius, which he had earnestly 
solicited, and shortly after sailed with a 
numerous fleet to join the forces of the Tri- 
umvirate. In consequence of a violent 
storm, in which many of her ships were 



destroyed or disabled, she was obliged to 
return to Egj'pt. 

After the defeat of Brutus and Cassius, 
and the firm establishment in Greece of the 
authority of his colleagues and himself, 
Marc Antony crossed over into Asia, to 
secure and strengthen their interests in that 
quarter of the world. The prestige of his 
name was all-powerful. His progress was 
one continued triumph — not such as best 
became a conqueror, but dishonored by de- 
bauchery and excess. Kings bent before 
him, in humble obeisance, and laid their 
hoarded treasures at his feet. Queens, 
rejoicing in youth and beauty, sought his 
presence eagerly, and yielded every favor 
that he asked. 

This was Antony — brave but effeminate; 
talented and eloquent, but coarse by nature ; 
generous in disposition, but often cruel and 
unforgiving; sometimes abandoned, as it 
seemed, to the very lowest vices, and then, 
breaking loose from his degradation, exhib- 
iting his character radiant with its old light. 
This was the Anton}', who. History tells us, 
was ruined by the arts of Cleopatra — as if 
he were an unwilling victim, and she were 
wrong, judged by the standard of her time, 
in adopting the only means that could save 
her country from impending ruin. 

Antony had cast a longing eye on Egypt, 
and he wanted but a pretext, whether 
reasonable or unreasonable, to occupy it 
with his troops, abolish its government and 
laws, and seat a Roman governor on the 
throne of Cleopatra. He summoned her 
before him, to answer for the conduct of her 
subordinate. 

To disobey this summons was to incur 
the displeasure of Antony, so she deter- 
mined, therefore, to comply ; but that it 
might seem like condescension, rather than 
enforced submission, she did not hasten the 
preparation for her journey. She learned 
the weak points of Antony; she knew his 
character, and felt assured he would prove 



434 



CLEOPA TRA. 



an easy conquest. He was fond of money, 
so from her affluence, she provided herself 
with the richest presents, and an ample store 
of gold and silver. He was vain, and 
relished display and pomp — so she caused 
a barge to be built, whose magnificence had 
never yet been equaled ; and its accompani- 
ments, and her own habits and ornaments, 
were suited to her dignity and wealth, and 
in keeping with the show and splendor with 
which she intended to dazzle the eyes of all 
beholders, and to charm and captivate the 
Roman general. 

Cleopatra was not now the young and in- 
experienced girl who gave her love to 
Cffisar. She was in her twenty-sixth year, 
and every charm was perfected, every grace 
was finished. With both mind and person 
fully developed, winning in her address, 
fascinating in conversation, possessing a 
vivacity in whose presence melancholy was 
changed to mirthfulness, and skilled " in 
every art of wantonness" and coquetry, she 
was peerless and irresistible. None knew 
it better than herself — none felt it more 
than Antony. 

Though she received many pressing letters 
from Antony and his friends, urging her to 
expedite her movements, she affected to 
treat them with disdain, and lingered long 
at every place she visited upon the way. 
No thought of haste appeared to animate 
her; but she traveled slowly, as if intent on 
jDleasure, or delighting to provoke the im- 
patience of those who waited for her arrival. 
At last her fleet was moored within the 
entrance — and, followed by a long line of 
smaller barges, she ascended the river to 
Tarsus. 

It was a glorious pageant! The richest 
carvings adorned her barge, which fairly 
blazed with gold and splendor. Its sails, of 
brightest purple, swelled gracefully with the 
soft south wind that strained its silken 
cordage. Its oars, both blade and handle 
tipped and bound with silver, moved in har- 



mony with the voluptuous music of the flute 
the pipe, and cithern. And from the burn- 
ing censers on its prow, clouds of odorous 
perfume were wafted to the shore. Upon 
its deck was raised a lofty canopy of cloth of 
gold, beneath which, on a cushioned couch, 
with ivory and tortoise-shell inlaid, reclined 
the dark-eyed queen of Egypt. She was 
robed like Venus in a purple mantle, glitter- 
ing with diamonds, and its border orna- 
mented with threads of gold and silver 
intertwined. Roses and myrtles were 
wreathed about her brows. Beautiful boys, 
disguised as Cupids, stood beside her, and 
fanned her with their wings. 

The shore was lined with people, w^ho 
watched the barge laden with so much 
beauty, with straining ej^es. As it moved 
along, the cry was raised, that Venus had 
come to feast with Bacchus. From mouth 
to mouth it passed, until it reached the mar- 
ket-place in Tarsus. All hastened forth to 
witness her approach — all save Antony, 
who, deserted by suitors and attendants, re- 
mained alone on the tribunal where he was 
seated. Immediately upon her landing, he 
sent an officer to her with his greeting, 
coupled with the request that she would 
come and sup with him. 

" Go, tell your master," was her reply, 
" that it is more fitting he should come and 
sup with me! " 

This assumption of social superiority put 
an end at once to all the dignity which An- 
tony purposed to assume. He accepted the 
invitation of Cleopatra; and thus, exhibited 
a deference toward her by which she did 
not fail to profit. 

For luxurious magnificence, and costly 
and profuse extravagance, the entertainment 
provided by Cleopatra had never yet been 
equaled. 

Joy and merriment everywhere prevailed. 
The guests pledged each other in wine-cups 
brimming full. Honey and spices were 
brought and mingled in the wine, and with 




MOTHER S DARLING. 



CLE OPA TRA. 



437 



the fragrant compound they drank the health 
of Cleopatra. The Roman guards without 
the tents were also served with sumptuous 
fare. 

Antony was in raptures with everything 
he saw and heard. His expectations were 
iar exceeded — his wildest imaginings had 
not dwelt upon such splendor and magnifi- 
cence. The following day he returned the 
compliment, but his entertainment was so 
mean compared with hers, that he was 
obliged to acknowledge himself outdone. 
He had boasted that Cleopatra should pay 
him tribute or resign her kingdom ; but now 
he yielded all to her. 

" Swear that you love me," she said — 
*' swear by the holy Osiris! " 

" I swear!" he said. 

Thenceforth she called herself the wife of 
Antony, though no rite nor ceremony had 
sanctioned their illicit love. 

Her arts and blandishments proved irre- 
sistible. Home, country, duty, and ambition, 
all were forgotten by Antony. Instead of 
leading his soldiers to new victories, and 
planting the Roman eagles in triumph on 
the banks of the Euphrates, he accompanied 
Cleopatra to Alexandria. 

But while she thus encouraged and min- 
istered to his vices, she neglected no oppor- 
tunity to impress him, and those who were 
about them, with the notion that she pos- 
sessed superior tact and sagacity. She 
treated his opinions with levity, and exacted 
a large share of deference for her own. 
Even their amusements furnished occasions 
for triumph over him, which she failed not 
to improve. One day when they were 
fishing, he v\ras deeply chagrined at his ill- 
success, and ordered one of the fishermen to 
dive under the water secretly, and fasten 
some oLthe larger fishes that had been taken 
upon his hook, so that the radlery of the 
queen might not be provoked. She dis- 
covered the trick at once, but affected not to 
perceive it; and on the following day invited 



a still more numerous company to witness 
similar sport. But she privately instructed 
an experienced diver in her service, to pro- 
cure a salted fish from the market, and when 
a favorable opportunity offered, to attach it 
to Antony's hook. This was done, and he 
drew up the fish amid the laughter and 
merriment of the whole party. " Go, 
general!" she exclaimed, " Leave fishing to 
us, petty princes; your game is cities, king- 
doms, and provinces ! " 

Years passed by. The world had been 
divided between the triumvirs, and Antony 
had received for his portion the countries 
lying east of the Ionian Sea. Important 
matters of state, and the active duties of his 
life, diverted his mind from Cleopatra, yet 
she was not forgotten. 

Henceforth the wiles of the charming 
queen were far more powerful with Antony 
than all other influences combined. Now 
that he was restored to her, she resolved not 
to lose sight of him again. Separated from 
him she was but the sovereign of a petty 
kingdom; with him — a ruler of the world 
— she was not only the companion of his 
pleasures, but she governed and controlled 
him. Accordingly, all her arts were em- 
ployed to retain him near her — and they 
were not employed in vain. 

Octavia came as far as Athens to meet 
her lord and husband, but he sent her back 
to Rome with bitter words. This was Cleo- 
patra's triumph, but she rued it bitterly in 
the hour of her humiliation. She saved 
Egypt from the Roman's grasp, but sacri- 
ficed herself. Antony became her veriest 
slave; for her sake he heaped indignities 
upon his lawful wife, and added to them the 
last and foulest one of all, repudiation. She 
conquered, but unmanned him. 

The pride and daring of the soldier were 
not, indeed, altogether subdued in the effemi- 
nacy of the lover, and the weakness of the 
debauchee. After spending another winter 
at the Egyptian capitol, wearied and sated 



43« 



CLEOPATRA. 



with pleasure, he took the field again the 
following spring. Armenia was conquered. 
Again the banquet and the feast filled up 
the time; and sport, and revelry, and 
dalliance, made Antony the wreck of what 
he was. But his return to Rome was thus 
prevented, and it was that she ardently de- 
sired. Her charms were fading now; in a 
few years their influence would be no longer 
felt. 

Once move he prepared to lead his soldiers 
against the Parthian. Cleopatra accom- 
panied Antony in his expedition, for they 
were now inseparable. They proceeded as 
far as the Araxes, but alarming news from 
Rome recalled them. They then directed 
their course to Greece; at Ephesus, at Samos, 
and at Athens, spending weeks and months 
in revelry and feasting, which, profitably 
employed, would have made them masters 
of Rome, and thus realized the glorious 
dreams of her proud ambition. Never was 
woman so self-deceived. She anticipated 
an easy victory over the stripling Cfflsar, 
when Antony declared war against him. 
Her jealous pride rose high with the 
thought that Octavia would be humbled — 
that Antony would be the world's great 
master, and she its mistress. 

The delusion was not a strange one, and 
from it she never woke, till, from her gal- 
ley's deck at Actium, she saw that all was 
lost. Had Antony pushed on to Rome, he 
could scarcely have failed of victory. It 
was not his wish that Cleopatra should 
remain with him, but fearing, with very 
good reason, that a reconciliation would take 
place between Octavius and Antony if she 
returned to Egypt, she bribed one of the 
counselors of the latter, in whom he placed 
great confidence, to advise that she should 
continue at his side. 

Antony lingered away most precious time, 
and when at last he ventured to risk an 
engagement, he listened to the advice of 
Cleopatra, instead of following his own 



better judgment, and offered battle at sea 
Foreseeing certain defeat, on account of the 
imbecility and want of skill displayed by 
Antony, Cleopatra determined to secure her 
own personal safety, and left the scene of 
the engagement with her fifty galleys. 
Antony might still have made a noble stand, 
but his courageous spirit seemed to have for- 
saken him. He gave up everything with- 
out a struggle worthy of his name and 
character, and followed the flying Cleopa- 
tra. Having been received into her galley, 
they hastened with all speed to Alexandria, 
not to make a noble stand in defense of 
what was left to them, but to forget their 
folly in the wildest excesses, and to load 
each other with reproaches. 

It is as two jealous lovers, not bound 
together by the sacred tendrils of an honest 
affection, but united by an unholy passion, 
that Antony and Cleopatra are from this 
time to be regarded. They loved and 
hated one another by turns — they doubted 
and deceived each other. She feared, as 
had been the case before so often, that 
Antony would make his peace with Csesar; 
and so, she resolved to provide for her own 
security, by secretly dispatching friendly 
messages to the conqueror. 

Upon the arrival of Octavius with his 
army before the walls of Alexandria, the 
warrior heart of Antony aroused itself once 
more. He made a gallant sally, and drove 
back the advancing legions. But the advan- 
tage he achieved was but temporary, and 
on the following day the fleet of Cleopatra 
was surrendered by her command to Cjesar. 
Antony sought the queen forthwith to 
charge her with her treachery. But she had 
now immured herself, with all her most valu- 
able treasures, in a lofty tomb which she had 
caused to be erected beside the temple of 
Isis. In reply to the inquiries of Antony, 
from whose ungovernable rage the worst 
consequences were feared in case they saw- 
each other then, it was told him that she had 



CLE OF A TRA 



439 



killed herself. His love for her at once 
returned, and shutting himself up in his 
apartment, he fell upon his sword. At this 
moment, an officer came to inform him that 
Cleopatra was still alive ; and at his request he 
was carried to the tomb, and there he died. 
By stratagem the officers of Octavius 
obtained admission into the tomb; where- 
upon she attempted to stab herself with a 
dagger, but her design was frustrated by 
their interference. Octavius himself now 
came to see her. She appeared before him 
clothed in a simple tunic, thinking, perhaps, 
the charms displayed might move him, but 
he did not deign to notice them. "The 
deadly sorrow charactered in her face" had 
robbed her of her former beauty. She then 
urged him with tears to spare her children 
and herself, and leave them undisturbed in 
^SyP'^* -^^ promised fairly, but she 
doubted him ; and she determined to die by 
^er own hand, rather than be led in triumph, 
like the humblest slave, before the car of the 
Roman conqueror. This degradation she 
had always feared ; her high soul revolted 
at the prbspect which she saw before her; 



and sooner than be young Caesar's captive, 
she resolved to perish nobly. 

With the effect of different poisons she 
had made herself perfectly familiar; and 
either by this means, or, as was commonly 
believed, by the bite of an asp, secretly in- 
troduced into the tomb, her life was ended. 

Such was the fate of Cleopatra. Faults 
and vices she exhibited, which, revolting as 
they were, need not be excused in her, for 
they were characteristic of her age. Though 
her virtues were mental only, they deserved 
to be remembered. It should not be for- 
gotten also, that History — all-partial to the 
Roman as it is — has scarcely done her jus- 
tice. She loved Csesar, and to her it seemed 
not guilty. She was ambitious, too, not 
only desiring to save her throne and king- 
dom, but to reign in Rome. In her inter- 
course with Antony she was prompted not 
by sensual motives only, but chiefly by 
policy and ambition. She was indeed mis- 
taken as to the effect of the means and arts 
which she employed to win him to her. 
Judged by the times in which she lived, this 
was her error! 



440 



HOME INSTRUCTION. 



HOME INSTRUCTION 

ABOVE all things, teach children what 
their life is. It is not breathing, 
moving, playing, sleeping, simply. 
Life is a battle. All thoughtful people see 
it so. A battle between good and evil from 
childhood. Good influences, drawing us up 
toward the divine; bad influences, drawing 
us down to the brute. Midway we stand, 
between the divine and the brute. How to 
cultivate the good side of the nature is the 
greatest lesson of life to teach. Teach 
children that they lead these two lives — the 
life without, and the life within; and that 
the inside must be pure in the sight of God, 
as well as the outside in the sight of men. 

There are five means of learning. These 
are: 

Observation, reading, conversation, mem- 
ory, reflection. 

Educators sometimes, in their anxiety to 
secure a wide range of studies, do not suffi- 
ciently impress upon their scholars the 
value of memory. Now, our memory is 
one of the most wonderful gifts God has 
bestowed upon us; and one of the most 
mysterious. Take a tumbler and pour water 
into it; by-and-by you can pour no more; 
it is full. It is not so with the mind. You 
can not fill it full of knowledge in a whole 
life-time. Pour in all you please, and it 
still thirsts for more. 

Remember this: 

Knowledge is not what you learn, but 
what you remember. 

It is not what you eat, but what you 
digest, that makes you grow. 

It is not the money you handle, but that 
you keep, that makes you rich. 

It is not what you study, but what you 
remember and reflect upon, that makes you 
lea' ned. 

One more suggestion. 

Above all things else, strive to fit the 
children in your charge to be useful men 
and women; men and women you maybe 



proud of in after-life. While they are 
young, teach them that far above physical 
courage, which will lead them to face the 
cannon's mouth — above wealth, which 
would give them farms and houses, and 
bank stocks, and gold, is moral courage. 
That courage by which they will stand 
fearlessly, frankly, firmly, for the right. 
Every man or woman who dares to stand 
for the right when evil has its legions, is 
the true moral victor in this life, and in the 
land beyond the stars. 



THE HOME OF CHILDHOOD. 

THE most impressive series of pictures 
I have ever seen aie by Thomas 
Cole, an American artist, and termed 
"The Voyage of Life." 

The first represents a child seated in a 
boat amid varied and beautiful flowers, and 
his guardian angel standing by to guard and 
protect the little voj'ager. 

The second represents the youth, still on 
his voyage, guiding his own bark down the 
stream, his finger pointing upward to a 
beautiful castle painted in the clouds. 

The third represents the man, still in the 
boat, going down the rapids; the water 
rough, the sky threatening, and the guardian 
angel looking on from a distance, anxiously. 

The fourth represents an old man, still in 
his boat, the sun going down amid floating 
clouds tinged with gold, purple, and ver- 
milion, the castle or House Beautiful in full 
view, and the guardian angel with an escort 
of shining celestials waiting to attend him to 
his home in glory. 

The pictures have suggested to me a 
series of articles on Life's Great Mission and 
work for the grander life beyond. And on 
this sublime voyage to the land of immor- 
tals, to the Palace Beautiful in the skies, 
let us start from the dear old home of 




I-OVE ME LITTLE, LOVE ME LONG. 



THE HOME OF CHILDHOOD. 



443 



childhood, that home which, though it may 
be desolate, is still imperishable in memory. 

Home of my childhoocl, thou shalt ever be dear t 
To the heart that so fondly revisits thee now; 
Though my beauty be gone, thy leaf in the sere, 
The wreaths of the past still cling to thy brow. 

Spirit of mine, why linger ye here; 
Why cling to those hopes so futile and vain? 
Go, seek ye a home in that radiant sphere, 
Which through change and time thou shalt ever 
retain. 

Let our destined port be the home of the 
blessed — the city which hath foundations, 
whose builder and maker is God ! 

" And thou shalt bring thy father, and 
thy mother, and thy brethren, and thy 
father's household home unto thee." — 
yoshua a. :i8. 

The Christian home, implying marriage, 
mutual affection, piety, gentleness, refine- 
ment, meekness, forbearance, is our ideal of 
earthly happiness — a beautiful and impress- 
ive type of heaven. 

It is more than a residence, a place of 
abode, however attractive in its surroundings, 
however richly adorned with art and beauty. 

It is where the heart is, where the loved 
ones are — husband, wife, father, mother, 
brothers, sisters, all united in sympathy, fel- 
lowship, and worship. It may be humble, 
unpretentious, exhibiting no signs of mate- 
rial wealth; but there is the wealth of 
mutual affection,which fire can not consume, 
and no commercial disaster alienate or 
destroy, and this is home — the home of the 
heart, the home of childhood, the Elysium of 
riper years, the refuge of age. 

That we may the better appreciate the 
Christian homes that God has given us — the 
homes of comfort and refinement, that 
rocked the cradle of our infancy — let us con- 
sider, first, the vast multitudes of our fallen 
race that really have no home; none in the 
Christian sense, none that antedate heaven in 
peace, refinement, and mutual love. How 
many children are born to the heritage of 



vice, poverty, and crime, left to drift upon 
the tide of circumstances, to be buffeted in the 
wild and angry storm, to be chilled on the 
desolate moor of life — to wander amid 
the voids of human sympathy — the solitude 
and estrangement of human society — the 
children of dire misfortune — victims of vice 
and crime, polluted and polluting from the 
first. 

How many fall, like blossoms prematurely 
blown, nipped by the lingering frosts of 
winter and sinking into the shadowed 
stream, or the sobbing soil of earth, to be 
seen no more. 

Think of the dwellings of hard-handed, 
wearied, ill-requited labor, where ignorance 
and discontent reign supreme — where there 
is no recognition of God, who, in His all- 
wise Sovereignty, raiseth up one and casteth 
down another. Such homes, or rather places 
of abode, there are all over the land, all 
over the dark and wide realm of heathen- 
dom, the children of which must be devoted 
to sacrifice to the horrors of the Ganges or 
the Nile. 

Look now to the other extreme of society, 
to the habitations of the millionaires, adorned 
with all the luxuries of wealth, the appli- 
ances of art, taste, beauty, whose children 
are trained up to worship at the shrine of 
Mammon, to exclude from their mmds all 
thoughts of God and the hereafter, to live 
only for this world, to feel that there is no 
society worth cultivating except that of the 
rich, the elite^ the would-be fashionable; 
that all enjoyments are material, sensuous, 
worldly; that the chief end of man is to eat, 
drink, and be merry. Such households do 
not furnish the best schools in which to edu- 
cate children to wrestle with misfortune and 
to do the great work of life. They are 
liable to grow up effeminate, lacking execu- 
tive strength, cold, proud, misanthropic, 
alienated in sympathy from the toiling 
masses. 



444 



THE OLD HOME. 



There can be no well-regulated home 
without piety, without the fear and love of 
God. And such homes are usually found in 
the middle walks of life, not among the 
extreme poor, nor the proudly affluent, but 
among the mutually loving — the reverently 
worshipful. It is to such homes that the 
world owes its highest interests. The old 
patriarchs understood the secret, even under 
the former dispensation, long before the 
dawn of the Christian era. God testified of 
Abraham, of Moses, of Samuel, and Job how 
truly they comprehended the nature of that 
family institution, around which cluster all 
the associations of the first period of human 
life. 

And it has only been in the line and in 
the light of the Christian revelation, that 
the highest type of the household has been 
produced and preserved. And it is upon 
the ai^plication of Christian principles alone, 
that the structure of the Christian family 
and the Christian home can stand. 

The family in its origin is divine, and 
God has instituted laws for its regulation 
and perpetuity, and these laws must be 
scrupulously observed and obeyed or it 
ceases to be an ornament and a blessing — 
the great training-school for the Church and 
the State — the safeguard of society and a 
type of heaven. 



w 



THE OLD HOME. 

E love the well-beloved place 
Where first we gazed upon the sky ; 
The roofs that heard our earliest cry? 
Will shelter one of stranger race. 



One whispers, " Here thy boyhood sung 
Long since, its matin song, and heard 
The low love-language of the bird, 

In native hazels tassel-hung." 

The other answers, " Yea, but here 

Thy feet have strayed in after hours, 
With thy best friend among the bowers, 

And this hath made them trebly dear." 

These two have striven half a day; 

And each prefers his separate claim. 
Poor rivals in a losing game, 

That will not yield each other way. 

I turn to go — my feet have set 

To leave the pleasant fields and forms; 

They mix in one another's arms 
To one pure image of regret. 

Alfred Tennysow. 



W"e go, but ere we go from home. 

As down the garden-walks I move, 
Two spirits of a diverse love 

Contend for loving masterdom. 



OUR FRIENDS IN HEAVEN. 

HOW beautiful- is the belief of man's 
immortality! The dead alive again, 
and forever. " Earth to earth, ashes 
to ashes, dust to dust," is only spoken over 
the body, when consigned to " the house 
appointed for all the living." Not such the 
requiem of the soul. A refrain of immor- 
tality concludes earth's history and an. 
nounces eternity's beginning. " Not lost, 
but gone before." Such is the cherished 
and beautiful faith of man in all ages and 
lands; a mere glimmering indeed in minds 
unirradiated with divine truth; and only a 
power and a joy when God's voice audibly 
falls upon the ear in words of counsel and 
prophecy. 

The sainted dead dwell in life; beholding 
" the King in His beauty;" shining " as the 
brightness of the firmament, and as the 
stars for ever and ever." They fade no 
more, nor realize pain ; a wealth of lovf is 



GLIMPSES OFHEAVBN. 



445 



theirs, a heritage of goodness, a celestial 
habitation; and in them thoughts, hopes, 
feelings expand and move forward in cease- 
less progressions. We may feel sad because 
they are lost to us; but while we weep and 
"wonder, they are wrapped in garments of 
light and warble songs of celestial joy. 
They will return to us no more; but we 
shall go to them; share their pleasures; 
emulate their sympathies; and compete with 
them in the path of endless development. 
We would not call them back. In the 
homes above they are great, and well- 
employed, and blest. Shadows fall upon 
them no more, nor is life ruffled with 
anxious cares ; love rules their life and 
thoughts; and eternal hopes beckon them 
forever to the pursuit of infinite good. 

To whom are these thoughts strange and 
dull? Who has no treasure in heaven — 
well-remeinbered forms hallowed by sep- 
aration and distance — stars of hope illumin- 
ing with ever-increasing beauty life's utmost 
horizon? What family circle has remained 
unbroken — no empty chair — no cherished 
mementos — voices and footsteps returning 
no more — no members transferred to the 
illimitable beyond? Where is he who has 
stood unhurt amid the chill blasts, that have 
blighted mortal hopes, and withered mortal 
loves? Alas! the steps of death are every- 
w^here; his voice murmuring in every sweep 
of the wind ; his ruins visible on towering 
hill and in sequestered vale. We all have 
felt or seen his power. Beneath the cypress 
we rest and weep; our hearts riven with 
memories of the loved and lost; and yet 
hope springing eternal from earth's mauso- 
leums to penetrate and possess the future. 

Heaven is ours; for is it not occupied by 
our dead? Heaven and earth lay near 
together in the myths of the ancients; and 
shall it be otherwise in the institutions of 
Christianity? We need faith. Our paths 
are surrounded by the departed ; our assem- 
biies multiplied by their presence; our lives 



bettered by their ministries. From beneath 
night shadows we look forward into the 
approaching day ; and while we gaze the 
beams of the morning spread light and 
loveliness over the earth. It is not other- 
wise, as from beneath the night of time we 
peer anxiously after the pure day of heaven. 
And communion with the dead, whom 
we have known and loved on earth, will 
make heaven more real and attractive to us; 
dissipating the vagueness of the notion with 
which it is too often regarded ; begetting 
within us abiding attachments for celestial 
seats. God, who created the world, and 
whose providence is everywhere visible in 
promoting our welfare, is there ; and Jesus, 
who died for us, and w^ith whom we have 
grown familiar in His earthly history; and 
the Holy Spirit, the sanctifier of the church, 
and whose gentle influences we have felt 
within us. And our friends are there — 
changeless, loving spirits now — yet with 
lineaments familiar and forms well remem- 
bered. The homes of the blest are no longer 
vague, mdistinct, poorly defined. We see 
them — the beautiful city, the outlined hills of 
immortality — the on-flowing river making 
glad the palaces of God. And we can have 
an idea of what they must be — how sub- 
stantial in their foundations — how vast in 
their proportions — how rich in their furnish- 
ings — to be fitting habitations for the immor- 
tals. Heaven comes nearer to us, and grows 
more attractive, as we think of the loved 
ones who dwell there. — Anonymous. 



GLIMPSES OF HEAVEN. 

THERE is something beautifully sug- 
gestive in the many - sidedness of 
heaven, with gates of entrance from 
every point of the compass. This empha- 
sizes the catholicity of God's " many man- 
sions," into which all the redeemed shall 



446 



ENEMIES MEET AT DEATH'S DOOR. 



enter, from all parts of the globe, and from 
every denomination in Christ's flock. All 
shall come in through Christ, yet by many 
gateways. The variety of " fruits " on the 
trees of life points toward the idea of satis- 
fying every conceivable taste and aspiration 
of God's vast household. 

Heaven is assuredly to be a home; its 
occupants one large, loving household. It 
will meet our deepest social longings; no 
one will complain of want of " good 
society." The venerable Emerson is not 
the only profound thinker who has fed his 
hopes of " a good talk with the Apostle 
Paul." Dr. Guthrie is not the only parent 
who has felt assured that his "wee Johnnie 
would meet him inside the gate." Many 
a pastor counts on finding his spiritual chil- 
dren there as a crown of rejoicing in that 
day. The recognition of friends in heaven 
can not be a matter of doubt. Nor will 
any hateful spirit of caste mar the equalities 
of a home where all have a common Lord, 
and all are brethren. 

When Cineas, the ambassador of Pyrrhus, 
returned from his visit to Rome in the 
days of her glory, he reported to his sov- 
ereign that he had seen a "commonwealth 
of kings." So it will be in heaven, where 
every heir of redeeming grace will be as a 
king and priest unto God, and divine adop- 
tion shall make everyone a member of the 
royal family. What a comfort that we need 
never to pull up our tent-poles in quest of a 
pleasanter residence! Heaven will have no 
" moving-day." When you and I, brother, 
have packed up at the tap of death's signal- 
bell, we set out on our last journey; and 
there will be a delightful permanence in 
those words, '•'•forever with the Lord." The 
leagues to the home are few and short. 
Happy is that child of Jesus whose life- 
work is kept up so steadily to the line that 
he is ready to leave it at an instant's notice; 
happy is he who is ever listening for the 
invitation to hasten to his home. 



One of the best evidences of the changed 
and entirely sanctified condition of Chris- 
tians in that new world of glory will be, 
that God can trust us there with complete 
unalloyed prosperit}'! I never saw a Chris- 
tian yet in this world who could be; even 
Paul himself needed a "thorn" to prick 
his natural pride and keep him humble. 
There is not one of us whose religion might 
not soon decay, like certain fruits, if exposed 
to the blazing heat of a perpetual sunshine. 
Here we require constant chastisements, con- 
stant lettings down, and frequent days of 
cloud and storm. God could not more 
effectually ruin us than by letting us have 
our own way. 

But in heaven we can bear to be per- 
petually prosperous, perpetually healthy, 
perpetually happy, and freed from even 
the need of self - watchfulness. The 
hardest recognition of heaven will be to 
know ourselves. We shall require no 
rods of discipline there, and there will be 
no house-room for crosses in the realms of 
perfect holiness. Can it be that you and I 
shall ever see a day that shall never know a 
pang, never witness a false step, never hear 
a sigh of shame or mortification, never see 
one dark hour, and never have a cloud float 
through its bright unbroken azure of glory? 
Can all this be? Tes, this may all, and will 
all, be true of me, if I am Christ's faithful 
child ; but oh, what a changed creature must 
I be when I get on the other side of that 
gate of pearl! Heaven will not be a 
greater surprise to us than we shall be to 
ourselves. 



ENEMIES MEET AT DEATH'S 
DOOR. 

THE battle was over and the sun had 
gone down. The dense white smoke 
of the great cannons had been dis- 
persed by the evening breeze that crept 



JSNEMIES MEET AT DEATH'S DOOR. 



447 



faint and sweet from the dark woods near 
by, lifting with touch as light as a living 
hand's the damp hair on icy foreheads, and 
fluttering in sad mockery the torn and 
bloody flag yet grasped by a hand forever 
still. 

The rabbit that had been driven away by 
the fearful noise of battle stole timidly, with 
many a start and shiver, back to its young, 
hidden in the long grass beneath the hedge 
of wild rose, and clear and shrill the cricket 
piped its evening song as if in scorn of the 
strife and tumult of an hour ago. 

Defeat had been suffered and victory 
gained, and the triumphant host had followed 
hot and fast in the path of the retreating 
foe, and for the time being the battlefield, 
with its wounded and dead, lay still and 
quiet, save for a low moaning here and there, 
and the death rattle now and again that 
told of some soldier's great promotion. 

Beneath a spreading oak that grew close 
to where a grim-mouthed cannon breathed 
its silent threat, lay two, clad in uniforms of 
different colors, one of well-worn gray, with 
the three stars that marked the collar 
dimmed and dark with a slowly oozing 
crimson stain, and the other of blue, like the 
v\'earer's own young eyes, and torn with a 
horrid rent in the breast. 

The gray-haired man in the colonel's 
uniform roused at last from tlie swoon in 
which he lay and glanced about him in 
restless pain, only to meet the blue eyes near 
him. Just a smooth, boyish face, with the 
light of laughter hardly gone from it, but 
now white and drawn with a sick pain, and 
the mouth, that had not long lost its childish 
curve, stern with a pitiful effort at self- 
command; and clear and distinct to the older 
man came a softening vision of a curly head 
asleep on a snowy pillow, and of blue eyes 
far away like those that looked into his now 
from a wounded foeman's face. But the 
old question of right and wrong, that had 
seemed so great when the black guns that 



frowned upon the evening scene had been 
wheeled into place, and the early sunlight 
flashed on bayonet and sword, dwindled 
away before the veiled face of the mighty 
angel. Death, that liovered near, and the 
God-born touch of nature that makes the 
whole world kin spoke in the gray. 

" Are you hurt much, my boy ? " 

" To death, I'm afraid, sir." 

" Ah, but perhaps not! Let's see." And 
slowly and painfully he crawled the few 
feet that lay between them, but one glance 
at the jagged breast wound under the blue 
coat showed him that the lad was right, 
and, exhausted by the effort, he sank down 
by the other's side. 

W hen he came to, a hand was laving his 
brow with water from an old canteen, a hand 
feeble in touch and slow, but gentle as a 
girl's. 

" I was afraid you were gone, sir," said 
the boy, faintly smiling at him. 

" Not yet, but we're going home together 
lad, and we're nearly there." 

There was silence between the two for 
awhile as the kindly twilight enwrapped the 
dreadful spectacle of shattered, bleeding 
humanity in her violet mantle, but presently 
a sob broke from the boy, whose dawning 
manhood caught it back in shame. 

" I'm not crying for myself, sir. Don't 
you think that, for I believe I could face 
death as well as anyone, but I can't help 
thinking of my mother. I'm all she's got 
now, for my father went at Bull Run and 
my brothers — both of them — at Chancel- 
lorsville. I can see her now, sir, sitting on 
the dear old porch with its clematis vine, 
where I will never rest again, straining her 
eyes down the road for my coming, for I 
was promised a furlough and was to have 
had it to-morrow, and now I'm dying a 
thousand miles away ! And Greeley — he's 
my dog, that I played with when I was a 
little chap— I can see him, too, running 
down to the orchard gate looking for me, 



448 



THE STARLESS CROWN. 



for I told him good-bye there, with his lion- 
est brown eyes trying to make out where 
I've gone, and coming slowly back to lay his 
head on my mother's knee. I got a letter 
yesterday, telling me all about it, and how 
every day they lay my plate for me and set 
my chair, and have doughnuts for tea, just 
as they used to do when I was a boy and 
coming home from school." 

"And I," said the Confederate, with his 
eyes dim and a quiver in his bearded lips, 
"leave desolate a little brown house on a 
grim old mountain's side, not many miles 
away, where one patient little woman awaits 
for me beside a crib, with two little girls 
close to her knee that talk of 'father's com- 
ing ' by and by. They'll gather to-night 
around the table, with the bright lamp on it 
that I used to watch shining down the road 
like a loving message as I plodded up the 
mountain side." 

And so upon the golden stars the foeman 
gazed and talked of home in tender remi- 
niscence, till, as those stars paled before the 
moon climbing higher and higher in the 
clear dome above them, there fell a silence 
that was the benediction of a pitying God 
upon His wandering, wounded children. 
And when the morning came, the busy 
surgeons and those that searched the field 
for missing friends came upon a strange, 
pathetic sight. The two that lay beneath 
the green oak's spreading boughs with 
death's solemn seal on their quiet faces were 
clasping hands, blue and gray forgotten in 
the old, old bond of common brotherhood. 



I thought, while slumbering on my couch in 

midnight's solemn gloom, 
I heard an angel's silvery voice, and radiance 

filled my room. 
A gentle touch awakened me; a gentle 

whisper said, 
" Arise, O sleeper, follow me! " and through 

the air we fled; 
We left the earth so far away that like a 

speck it seemed. 
And heavenly glory, calm and pure, across 

our pathway streamed. 

Still on he went; my soul was wrapped in 

silent ecstasy; 
I wondered what the end would be, what 

next would meet my eye. 
I knew not how we journeyed through the 

pathless fields of light, 
When suddenly a change was wrought, and 

I was clothed in white. 
We stood before a city's walls, most glorious 

to behold ; 
We passed through streets of glittering 

pearl, o'er streets of purest gold. 
It needed not the sun by day, nor silver 

moon by night; 
The glory of the Lord was there, the Lamb 

Himself its light. 

Bright angels paced the shining streets, 

sweet music filled the air, 
And white-robed saints, with glittering 

crowns, from every clime were there; 
And some that I had loved on earth stood 

with them round the throne. 
"All worthy is the Lamb," they sang, "the 

glory His alone." 



THE STARLESS CROWN. 



w 



EAR] ED and worn with earthly 
care, I yielded to repose. 
And soon before my raptured 
sight a glorious vision rose. 



AN ANGEL IN A SALOON. 

ONE afternoon in the month of June, 
1S70, a lady in deep mourning, fol- 
lowed by a little child, entered one 
of the fashionable saloons in the city of 




KEAUTIFUI. THOUGHTS !■ ROM ANGELS KAIK. 



AN ANGEL IN A SALOON. 



45'^ 



N . The writer happened to be pass'ng 

at the time, and prompted by curiosity, fol- 
lowed her in, to see what would ensue. 
Stepping up to the bar, and addressing the 
proprietor, who happened to be present, she 
said: 

"Sir, can you assist me? I have no 
home, no friends, and am not able to work." 

He glanced at her and then at the child, 
with a mingled look of curiosity and pity. 
Evidently he was much surprised to see a 
woman in such a place begging, but with- 
out asking any questions gave her some 
change, and turning to those present, he 
said: 

" Gentlemen, here is a lady in distress. 
Can't some of you help her a little ?" 

They cheerfully acceded to the request, 
and soon a purse of two dollars was made 
up, and put in her hand. 

" Madam," said the gentleman, who gave 
her the money, "why do you come to a 
saloon? It isn't a proper place for a lady, 
and why are you driven to such a step? " 

" Sir," said the lady, "I know it isn't a 
proper place for a lady to be in, and you ask 
me why I am driven to such a step. I will 
tell you in one short word," pointing to a 
bottle behind the counter, labeled whisky, 
" that is what brought me here — whisky ! 

" I was once happy and surrounded with 
all the luxuries that wealth could procure, 
with a fond, indulgent husband. But in an 
evil hour he was tempted, and not possess- 
ing the will to resist the temptation, fell, 
and in one short year my dream of happi- 
ness was over, my home was forever deso- 
late, and the kind husband, and the wealth 
that some called mine lost — lost, never to 
return, and all by the accursed wine cup. 

" You see before you only the wreck of 
my former self, homeless and friendless, 
with nothing left me in this world but this 
little child," and weeping bitterly, she affec- 
tionately caressed the golden curls that 
shaded a face of exquisite loveliness. 



Regaining her composure, and turning to the 
proprietor of the saloon, she continued : 

" Sir, the reason why I occasionally enter 
a place like this is to implore those who deal 
in the deadly poison to desist, to stop a busi- 
ness that spreads desolation, ruin, poverty, 
and starvation. Think one moment of your 
own loved ones, and then imagine them in 
the situation I am in, I appeal to your bet- 
ter nature, I appeal to your heart — for I 
know you possess a kind one — to retire from 
a business so ruinous to your patrons. 

"Did you know the money you take 
across the bar is the same as taking the 
bread out of the mouths of the famished 
wives and children of your customers? 
That it strips the clothing from their backs, 
deprives them of nil the comforts of this life 
and throws unhappiness, misery, crime, and 
desolation in their once happy homes? Oh, 
sir, I implore, beseech, and pray you to re- 
tire from a business you blush to own you 
are engaged in before your fellow-men, and 
enter one that will not only be profitable to 
yourself but your feJlow-creatures also. 
You will excuse me if I have spoken too 
plainly, but I could not help it when I 
thought of the misery, the unhappiness, and 
the suffering it has caused me." 

" Madam, I am not offended," he an- 
swered in a voice husky with emotion, "but 
I thank you from the bottom of my heart 
for what you have said." 

" Mamma," said the little child, who 
meantime had been spoken to by some of 
the gentlemen present, taking hold of her 
mother's hand, " these gentlemen wish me 
to sing ' Little Bessie ' for them. Shall I 
do so ? " 

They all joined in the request, and placing 
her in a chair she sang in a sweet childish 
voice, the following beautiful song: 

" Out in the gloomy night, sadly I roam, 
I have no mother dear, no pleasant home; 
Nobody car^s for me, no one would cry 
Even if poor little Bessie should dia 



452 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



Weary and tired I"ve been wandering all day, 
Asking tor work, but I'm too small, they say; 
On the damp ground I must now lay my head; 
Father's a drunkard and mother is dead. 

"We were so happy till father drank rum, 
Then all our sorrow and trouble begun; 
Mother grew pale and wept every day, 
Baby and I were too hungry to play; 
Slowly they faded till one summer night 
Found their dead faces all silent and white; 
Then with big tears slowly dropping I said, 
'Father's a drunkard and mother is dead.' 

"'O! if the temperance men only could tind 
Poor, wretched father and talk very kind; 
If they would stop him from drinking, then 
I should be so very happy again. 
Is it too late, temperance men? Please try. 
Or poor little Bessie must soon starve and die! 
All day long I've been begging for bread- 
Father's a drunkard and mother is dead." 

The game of billiards was left unfinished, 
*he cards thrown aside, and the unemptied 
glass remained on the counter; all had 
pressed near, some with pity-beaming eyes, 
entranced with the musical voice and beauty 
©f the child, who seemed better fitted to be 
with angels above than in such a place. 

The scene I shall never forget to my 
dying day, and the sweet cadence of her 
musical voice still rmgs in my ears, and 
©very word of the song, as it dropped from 
Ber lips, sank deep into the hearts of those 
gathered around her. 

With her golden hair falling carelessly 
around her little shoulders, and looking so 
trustingly and confidingly upon the gentle- 
men around her, her beautiful eyes illumi- 
nated with a light that seemed not of this 
earth, she formed a picture of purity and 
innocence worthy the genius of a poet or 
painter. 

At the close of the song many were 
weeping; men wlio had not shed a tear for 
years, now wept like children. One young 
man, who had resisted with scorn the plead- 
ings of a loving mother and the entreaties 
of friends to stiive to lead a better life, to 
desist from a course that was wasting his 



fortune, and ruining his health, now 
approached the child, and taking both hands 
in his, while tears streamed down his cheeks, 
exclaimed with deep emotion: 

"God bless you, my little angel! You 
have saved me from ruin and disgrace, from 
poverty and a drunkard's grave. If there 
are angels on earth, you are one! God 
bless you! God bless you! " and putting a 
bill into the hands of the mother, said: 
" Please accept this trifle as a token of my 
regard and esteem, for your little girl has 
done me a kindness I can never repay; and 
remember, whenever you are in want, you 
will find in me a true friend," at the same 
time giving her his name and address. 

Taking her child by the hand she turned 
to go, but jDausing at the door said : 

" God bless you, gentlemen! Accept the 
heartfelt thanks of a poor, friendless woman 
for the kindness and courtesy you have 
shown her." Before anyone could reply 
she was gone. 

A silence of several minutes ensued, 
which was broken by the proprietor, who 
exclaimed : 

" Gentlemen, that lady was right, and I 
have sold my last glass of whisky ; if any one 
of you want more, you will have to go else- 
where." 

"And I have drank my last glass of 
whisky," said a young man who had long 
been given up as utterly beyond the reach of 
those who had a deep interest in his welfare, 
as sunk too low ever to reform. — Western 
Tetnfcra7ice Herald. 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 

WHEN they reached the depot, Mr. 
Mann and his wife gazed in un. 
speakable disappointment at the 
receding train, which was just pulling away 
from the bridge switch at the rate of a mile a 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



453 



minute. Their first impulse was to run 
after it, but as the train was out of sight and 
whistling for Sagetown before they could 
act upon the impulse, they remained in the 
carriage and disconsolately turned their 
horses' heads homeward. 

Mr. Mann broke the silence, very grimly: 
" It all comes of having to wait for a 
woman to get ready." 

" I was ready before you were," replied 
his wife. 

"Great heavens!" cried Mr. Mann, with 
great impatience, nearly jerking the horses' 
jaws out of place, "just listen to that! And 
I sat in the buggy ten minutes yelling at you 
to come along until the whole neighborhood 
heard me." 

" Yes," acquiesced Mrs. Mann, with the 
provoking placidity which no one can 
assume but a woman, " and every time I 
started downstairs you sent me back for 
something you had forgotten." 

Mr. Mann groaned. " This is too much 
to bear," he said, " when ever)'body knows 
that if I were going to Europe I would just 
rush into the house, put on a clean shirt, 
grab up my grip-sack, and fly, while you 
would want at least six months for prelimi- 
nary preparations, and then dawdle around 
the whole day of starting until every train 
had left town." 

Well, the upshot of the matter was that 
the Manns put off their visit to Aurora until 
the next week, and it was agreed that each 
one should get himself or herself ready and 
go down to the train and go, and the one 
who failed to get ready should be left. The 
day of the match came around in due time. 
The train was going at 10:30, and Mr. 
Mann, after attending to his business, went 
home at 9:45. 

" Now, then," he shouted, " only three- 
quarters of an hour's time. Fly around; a 
fair field and no favors, you know." 

And away they flew. Mr. Mann bulged 
into this room and flew through that onej 



and dived into one closet after another with 
inconceivable rapidity, chuckling under his 
breath all the time to think how cheap Mrs. 
Mann would feel when he started off alone. 
He stopped on his way upstairs to pull off 
his heavy boots to save time. For the same 
reason he pulled off his coat as he raa 
through the dining-room and hung it on a 
corner of the silver closet. Then he jerked 
off his vest as he rushed through the haiS 
and tossed it on the hat-rack hook, and by 
the time he had reached his own room he 
was ready to plunge into his clean clothes. 
He pulled out a bureau dra^ver and began t® 
paw at the things like a Scotch terrier after 
a rat. 

" Eleanor," he shrieked, " where are mj 
shirts? " 

" In your bureau drawer," calmly replied 
Mrs. Mann, who was standing before a 
glass calmly and deliberately coaxing a 
refractory crimp into place. 

"Well, but they ain't!" shouted Mr„ 
Mann, a little annoyed. " I've emptied 
everything out of the drawer, and there 
isn't a thing in it I ever saw before." 

Mrs. Mann stepped back a few paces, 
held her head on one side, and after satisfy- 
ing herself that the crimp w^ould do, replied-: 
" These things scattered around on the floor 
are all mine. Probably you haven't beeia 
looking into your own drawer." 

" I don't see," testily observed Mr. Mann^ 
" why you couldn't have put my things out 
for me when you had nothing else to do all 
the morning." 

" Because," said Mrs. Mann, setting' 
herself into an additional article of raiment 
with awful deliberation, " nobody put mine 
out f r me. A fair field and no favor% 
my dear." 

Mr. Mann plunged into his shirt like &. 
bull at a red flag. 

" Foul ! " he shouted in malicious triumph,;, 
" No buttons on the neck ! " 

"Because," said Mrs. Mann, sweetly,, 



454 



TOO LATE FOR THE TRAIN. 



after a deliberate stare at the fidgeting^ 
impatient man, during which she buttoned 
her dress and put eleven pins where they 
would do the most good, "because you 
feave got the shirt on wrong side out." 

When Mr. Mann slid out of the shirt he 
began to sweat. He dropped the shirt three 
times before he got it on, and while it was 
©ver his head he heard the clock strike ten. 
When his head came through, he saw Mrs. 
Mann coaxing the ends and bows of her 
necktie. 

" Where are my shirt-studs? " he cried. 
Mrs. Mann went out into another room 
and presently came back with gloves and 
feat, and saw Mr. Mann emptying all the 
boxes he could find in and around the 
bureau. Then she said : " In the shirt you 
just pulled off." 

Mrs. Mann put on her gloves while Mr. 
Mann hunted up and down the room for his 
suff-buttons. 

« Eleanor," he snarled at last, " I believe 
, you must know where those cuff-buttons 
are." 

" I haven't seen them," said the lady set- 
Sling her hat. "Didn't you lay them down on 
the window sill in the sitting-room last 
night ? " 

Mr. Mann remembered, and he went 
down-stairs on the run. He stepped on one 
®f his boots and was immediately landed in 
the hall at the foot of the stairs with neat- 
ness and dispatch, attended in the trans- 
mission with more bumps than he could 
count with Webb's Adder, and landed with 
a bang like the Hell Gate explosion. 

"Are you nearly ready, Algernon?" 
sweetly asked the wife of his bosom, leaning 
aver the banisters. 

The unhappy man groaned. " Can't you 
3hrow me down the other boot?" he asked. 
Mrs. Mann, pityingly, kicked it down to 
Mm. 

"My valise?" he inquired, as he tugged at 
:She boot. 



" Up in your dressing-room,'' she answered. 

"Packed?" 

"I do not know; unless you packed it • 
yourself, probably not," she replied, with 
her hand on the door knob; "I had barely 
time to pack my own.'' 

She was passing out of the gate when the 
door opened, and he shouted, "Where, in 
the name of goodness, did you put my vest? 
It has all my money in it!" 

"You threw it on the hat rack," she 
called. "Good-bye, dear." 

Before she got to the corner of the street 
she was hailed again. 

"Eleanor! Eleanor! Eleanor Mann! Did 
you wear off my coat ? " 

She paused and turned, after signaling 
the street car to stop, and cried, " You threw 
it in the silver closet." 

The street car engulfed her graceful form, 
and she was seen no more. But the neigh- 
bors say that they heard Mr. Mann charging 
up and down the house, rushing out of the 
front door every now and then, shrieking 
after the unconscious Mrs. Mann, to know 
where his hat was, and where she put the 
valise key, and if she had his clean socks 
and undershirts, and that there wasn't a 
linen collar in the house. And when he 
went away at last, he left the kitchen door, 
the side door, and the front door, all the 
down-stairs windows, and the front gate, 
wide open. 

The loungers around the depot were 
somewhat amused, just as the train was 
pulling out of sight down in the yards, to 
see a flushed, enterprising man, with his hat 
on sideways, his vest unbuttoned, and neck- 
tie flying, and his grip-sack flapping open 
and shut like a demented shutter on a 
March night, and a door key in his hand, 
dash wildly across the platform and halt in 
the middle of the track, glaring in dejected, 
impotent, wrathful mortification at the 
departing train, and shaking his fist at a 
pretty woman who was throwing kisses at 
him from the rear platform of the last car. 



TEMPTATIONS. 



45/ 




TEMPTATIONS. 



THE house had always been a mystery 
to the good people of Santa Barbara, 
a pretty village which espouses the 
romance of the past, but frowns down that 
of the present. If strangers asked for its 
history, a chary outline was given them. 
It had been built by a young lawyer, 
Vernon, a man successful in his profession, 
popular in society, energetic in public affairs; 
and it had been one of the secrets evervbody 
knows, that a certain young lady, equally 
popular and prominent in society, would be 
the mistress of the pretty home. Yet at the 
very time when society was watching each 
post for invitations to the nuptials, and look- 
ing over its wardrobe to see if it had any- 
thing to wear, the prospective groom had 
disappeared, and work on the house had 
been suspended. 

There had been another suitor, a physi- 
cian, immersed in the duties of his profes- 
sion ; but it had been generally understood 
that he had little chance against the superior 
advantages of the other, and he had given 
color to this belief by wholly abandoning 
his suit after Vernon's disappearance. The 
young woman, who was still a favorite in 
society, had never married. This was the 
story with which the townspeople some- 
times regaled a prying tourist, but they care- 
fully concealed one humiliating fact: The 



lonely house, having no proper human ten- 
antry, as became a decorous orthodox dwell- 
ing, was accredited with supernatural occu- 
pants 

The house stood on a bluff crested with- 
fine old live-oaks, close to the water's edge. 
Through the trees, there were glimpses of a 
tiled roof and tower and of a long veranda 
fronting the sea ; but the windows were 
boarded up, the choice trees and shrubs had 
grown up rank and untrimmed and become 
interlaced in a thick chaparral, while a dense 
growth of vines wrapped the building in a 
dusty shroud. The most prosaic citizen of 
the little Spanish-American town was loth 
to pass the place by night; and even by day,, 
gay riding-parties, cantering along the sands 
below, had a feeling of oppression which 
did not wholly leave them until they had 
passed out of the shadow of the bluff into 
the bright sunlight. There was no denying 
that there was something uncanny about the 
untenanted house, which stood, lonely and 
desolate, a jarring discord in the fair land- 
scape. 

One moonlight night, two men passed 
through the small rustic gate that led to the 
deserted grounds. The moon, full and clear, 
showed partings in the maze of shrubbery^ 
bringing them at last to the opening before 
the house, where the arching oaks v/ove 



45^ 



TEMP TA TI ONS . 



a mysterious arabesque across the tangle of 
dried weeds on a space that had once been 
cleared to make a lawn, and a flood of light 
bathed the long veranda. 

" Sterling, look here!" said the taller of 
the men, in an excited undertone. 

His companion, a man nearing forty, a 
trifle stout of figure, and with features so 
firm in their setting as to convey an appear- 
ance of massiveness, in contradiction to their 
finely cut lines, beheld the unexpected sight 
w^ith the calm habit of a man used to meet- 
ing startling occurrences with unvarying 
composure. On the stone steps of the ve- 
randa, a woman was standing, clad in some 
light robe, and looking out to sea. Startled 
by their dark figures in the shade of the trees, 
she was moving away, bearing herself as 
one who knows no fear, but wishes to 
escape recognition. A great St. Bernard 
lying at the foot of the steps, rose and fol- 
lowed her. 

"Miss Judith!" said the older man. 

" Oh, is it you. Dr. Sterling? " 

Reassured by the calm familiar voice, she 
came back a step or two over the neglected 
lawn, then waited for the two men to 
approach. The old dog licked the doctor's 
hand, then sniffed and whined as his com- 
panion patted him. 

" You have not forgotten our old friend 
Vernon?" said the doctor, as the younger 
man reached out his hand. 

She held out her own, murmuring a con- 
ventional greeting. The doctor, narrowly 
watching her, noted that her lips were com- 
pressed and that her usual ease of manner 
was disturbed. The next instant, she was 
herself again. 

"You have been away a long time, Mr. 
Vernon," she said, and in her voice there was 
a note of indifference, a denial of interest, 
that seemed to forbid familiar intercourse. 
The doctor swept aside her little speech, as 
a man who is not to be deterred from taking 
a course upon which he has decided. 



" We were looking for you to-night. 
Your people thought that you might be 
down on the sands. We did not expect to 
find you here." 

She raised her head a little haughtily, re- 
senting this challenge of her personal move- 
ments or inclinations. The doctor went 
steadily on: 

" Finding you here encourages us to say 
what we had determined to say to-night. 
Nine years ago we were both your suitors. 
The fact that since then you have denied 
other attention, and have not married, has 
emboldened us to believe what we should 
not otherwise have had the presumption to 
assume — that one of us might have claimed 
from you a dearer privilege than friendship." 

" You have no right to say this to me. Dr. 
Sterling." 

In the brilliant moonlight they could see 
her lips quiver and her white throat swell 
and a wave of color mount into her face; 
but the words dropped like icicles. 

" I should have no right," replied the doc- 
tor, "were it not that we both loved you. 
Years have brought no change." 

He spoke with a slow solemnity that to an 
unsympathetic ear might have seemed pon- 
derous. The St. Bernard looked up into 
her face, his brown eyes shining with intel- 
ligence. 

" We would take no advantage of each 
other, therefore we have come together. 
And because we have perfect confidence in 
each other, v\re have each resolved to put our 
cause into the other's hands. I suppose it is 
an eccentric thing to do; but I, for one, trust 
Sterling before myself," said the younger 
man, making an effort to speak lightly. 
The doctor remained grave and thoughtful. 

" My turn first, Vernon," he said. 

Vernon, going to the farther end of the 
veranda, gazed out over the peaceful water. 
They both looked after him noting the 
strong athletic figure, the dark beauty of his 
face. 



TEMP T A TJONS . 



459 



The doctor led the young lady to a rustic 
seat, but he remained standing. 

" A truer and a braver fellow than Vernon 
never lived," he said. " He has fought and 
conquered where ninety-nine out of a hun- 
dred would have gone down. You knew 
him, as we all did, as a brilliant and promis- 
ing young man of good family, making a 
name in his profession and liked by every- 
body for his generous disposition and win- 
ning ways. F"or a long time, no one saw 
the other side. He was the victim of hered- 
itary weakness. His father and grandfather 
were drunkards. A good mother reared 
him in full knowledge of this overhanging 
curse, and he resolved never to be persuaded 
to touch or taste strong drink. In such a 
case, a man's only safety lies in total absti- 
nence. He was a gay impetuous fellow, 
but true as steel. You can form some idea 
of the temptations to which he was sub- 
jected; but he never flinched from his 
resolve. He made a great sacrifice to build 
this house, because he would not ask the hand 
of a rich man's daughter until he had a home 
to offer her. Everything was bright to him 
then. Home, friends, distinction, prosper- 
ity, and the priceless love of a good woman 
seemed in his grasp, when he fell. Some of 
his friends, who laughed at his temperance 
principles, played a trick on him One taste 
of the stuff, and the curse was upon him. 
I know, better than anyone else, how he 
fought against it. When he found, as he 
thought, that he could not master it, he 
went away where he would not shame those 
who had befriended him." 

" Miss Judith," the doctor addressed her 
earnestly, " Vernon has struggled for nine 
years with all the fiends of hell, and he has 
come off the victor, as few men have ever 
done. I will tell you honestly that, if I had 
been born with poor Vernon's weakness, I do 
not believe I could ever have mastered it. If 
ever a man deserved compassion and respect 
and a woman's affection, Vernon does." 



The doctor spoke with fervor, looking 
bravely in her face. There was nothing 
lover-like in his tone. Whatever selfish 
feeling or personal longing he may have 
had was stifled, and his clear eyes pleaded 
for the friend who had struggled so long 
and had conquered. Then he left her. 

Vernon left his post on the veranda and 
came slowly across to where the young lady 
was sitting. There were traces of deep 
feeling in his face. The doctor had uncon- 
sciously raised his voice with his last words. 

" He is the best man in the world," ex- 
claimed Vernon. " If I had heeded him 
instead of yielding to my own base instincts, 
nine years ago, I would be in a very dif- 
ferent position to-day. He tried to put me 
on my feet a dozen times. He braced me 
up with every kind and courageous word an 
unselfish friend could sjDeak. He screened 
and excused me, and, when he saw it was no 
use, he helped me away. I was already his 
debtor for the money to begin this house. 
The mortgage matured, and the place was 
virtually his. He was a man of small means 
— he is too generous to save money ; but, 
when he saw that I had gone to the dogs, 
he would neither foreclose nor sell nor occupy 
it. His honor and truth kept him from 
taking advantage, as he had every right to 
do, of my wretched downfall and endeavor- 
ing to supplant me. If I have a virtue left, 
it is that I love him better than myself; 
and because I wanted to do him the justice 
he would never do himself, I urged on him 
this exchange of offices to-night. Oh, it is 
a beggarly return for what he has been 
doing for me! It may seem brave to leave 
home and friends and fight out one's battles, 
an outcast on the face of the globe. But the 
bravest and hardest thing is to camp down 
in temptations and weaknesses, and live up 
to the homely demands of everyday life, and 
be helpful to others." 

She sat with head bowed and hands 
tightly clasped in her lap, Vernon had 



460 



TE MP TA TI ONS. 



spoken with a fervor that swept his words 
on like foam on the surging wave. When 
he again addressed her, there was a melan- 
choly cadence in his voice. 

"If you could give your life into my 
keeping, God knows it would be my sacred 
charge. I can trust myself now. I love 
you, Judith. There is no harm in my say- 
ing this. Sterling v^^ill never say it for him- 
self, so long as he thinks I have a chance. 
But his love is of a finer fibre. He has 
never neglected a duty in all these years. 
He goes his rounds — I was with him this 
afternoon — as cheerily as if he never had a 
care. But I found your picture in his 
mother's Bible to-day. That was how I 
knew." 

The young woman arose. Sterling was 
coming over the grass, his face calm and 
set, as one who walks fearlessly to his 
doom. 

" I hope you will not think we are taking 
too much for granted. Miss Judith," added 
Vernon, with an awkwardness new to him. 
"If you have nothing better than friend- 
ship for us, send us both to the right-about, 
and we will try to forget." 



" Whatever your decision," said Sterling, 
" we shall meet it bravely. Do not think it 
is going to ruin either of our lives. It 
means a great deal to us, but we are not 
going to blow out our brains because a 
woman does not love us." 

" Nor is it going to disturb our friend- 
ship," said Vernon, laying his hand on the 
other's shoulder and giving him a look of 
confidence. 

" You are both good men and strong men 
— the best and noblest I ever knew," she 
cried. " I am proud of your love, and I 
shall honor you all my life." 

Saying this, she bent upon one a look so 
kind that it smote him with sudden pain; 
but he tried to smile back a reassurance that 
should cast no blight upon the joy of one 
whose happiness was dearer to him than his 
own, as he nnn'mured an unintelligible word 
and then plunged into the tangled shrub. 
bery. 

She raised her eyes to the other, and he 
saw in them a light that filled his soul with 
strange peace and joy. 

" But my love," she said softly, " belongs 
to him who best deserves it." 




"and here I AM IN THE STORE." 



THE LOOM OF LIFE. 



463 



THE LOOM OF LIFE. 

ALL day, all night, I hear the jar 
Of the loom of life, and near and far 
It thrills with its deep and muffled 
sound 
As the tireless wheels go round and round. 

Busily, ceaselessly goes the loom 
In the light of day, and the midnight gloom ; 
The wheels are turning with ail their strife. 
Forming at last the web of each life. 

Click, clack! there's a web of love wove in; 
Click, clack! there's another of wrong and 

sin. 
What a checkered thing this life will be 
When we see it unrolled in eternity! 

Time with a face like mystery. 

And hands as busy as hands can be. 

Sits at the loom with arms outspread. 

To catch in its meshes each glancing thread. 

Are you spinners of wool in life's web, say? 
Do you furnish the weaver a thread each 

day? 
It were better then, O my friend, to spin 
A beautiful thread than a thread of sin. 

Say, when will this wonderful web be done? 
In a hundred years, perhaps, or one. 
Or to-morrow, who knoweth? not you 
nor I; 

But the wheels turn on and the shuttles fly. 

Ah, sad-eyed weaver, the years are slow, 
And each one is nearing the end, I know. 
Soon the last web will be woven in — 
God grant it be love and not of sin. 



MY MOTHER AT THE GATE. 

OH, there's many a lovely picture 
On memory's silent wall. 
There's many a cherished image 
That I tenderly recall! 

The sweet home of my childhood. 

With its singing brooks and birds, 
The friends who grew around me, 



With their loving looks and words; 
The flowers that decked the wildwood, 

The roses fresh and sweet. 
The blue-bells and the daisies 

That blossomed at my feet — 
All, all are very precious, 

And often come to me, 
Like breezes from that country 

That shines beyond death's sea. 
But the sweetest, dearest image 

That fancy can create. 
Is the image of my mother, 

My mother at the gate. 

There, there I see her standing, 

With her face so pure and fair. 
With the sunlight and the shadows 

On her snowy cap and hair; 
I can feel the soft, warm pressure 

Of the hand that clasped my own; 
I can see the look of fondness 

That in her blue eyes shone; 
I can hear her parting blessing 

Through the lapse of weary years; 
I can see, through all my sorrow, 

Her own sad, silent tears — 
Ah! amid the darkest trials 

That have mingled with my fate, 
I have turned to that dear image, 

My mother at the gate. 

But she has crossed the river. 

She is with the angels now, 
She has laid aside earth's burdens. 

And the crown is on her brow. 
She is clothed in clean, white linen. 

And she walks the streets of gold. 
Oh! loved one, safe forever 

Within the Saviour's fold, 
No sorrowing thought can reach thee. 

No grief is thine to-day ; 
God gives thee joy for mourning. 

He wipes thy tears away ! 
Thou art waiting in that city 

Where the holy angels wait, 
And when I cross the river 

I will see thee at the g-ate! • 



454 



AT THE TOMB OF NAP OLE ON. 



AT THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON. 

A LITTLE while ago I stood by the 
grave of the old Napoleon — a mag- 
nificent tomb of gilt and gold, fit 
almost for a deity dead — and gazed upon 
the sarcophagus of rare and nameless 
marble, where rests at last the ashes of that 
restless man. I. leaned over the balustrade 
and thought about the career of the greatest 
soldier of the modern world. I saw him 
walking upon the banks of the Seine con- 
templating suicide. I saw him at Toulon. 
I saw him putting down the mob in the 
streets of Paris. I saw him at the head of 
the army in Italy. I saw him crossing the 
bridge at Lodi with the tri-color in his hand. 
I saw him in Egypt, in the shadows of the 
pyramids. I saw him conquer the Alps and 
mingle the eagles of France with the eagles 
of the crags. I saw him at Marengo, at 
Ulm, and at Austerlitz. I saw him in Rus- 
sia, when the infantry of the snow and the 
cavalry of the wild blast scattered his legions 
like winter's withered leaves. I saw him at 
Leipsic in defeat and disaster — driven by a 
million b;iyonets back upon Paris — clutched 
like a wild beast — banished to Elba. I saw 
him escape and re-take an empire by the 
force of his genius. I saw liim upon the 
frightful field of Waterloo, where chance 
and fate combined to wreck the fortunes of 
their former king. And I saw him at St. 
Helena, with his hands crossed behind him, 
gazing out upon the sad and solemn sea. 

I thought of the widows and orphans he 
had made, of the tears that had been shed 
for his glory, and of the only woman w^ho 
•ever loved him, pushed from his heart by 
the cold hand of ambition. And I said I 
would rather have been a French peasant 
and worn wooden shoes ; I would rather 
have lived in a hut with a vine growing over 
the door, and the grapes growing purple in 
the amorous kisses of the autumn sun; I 
would rather have been that poor peasant, 
with my wife by my side knitting as the day 



died out of the sky, with my children upon 
my knees and their arms about me; I would 
rather have been this man and gone down 
to the tongueless silence of the dreamless 
dust, than to have been that imperial person- 
ation of force and murder, known as Na- 
poleon the Great. 



A COURTEOUS MOTHER. 

DURING the whole of one of last sum- 
mer's hottest days, I had the good 
fortune to be seated in a railway car 
near a mother and four children, whose re- 
lations with each other were so beautiful 
that the pleasure of watching them was 
quite enough to make one forget the dis- 
comforts of the journey. It was plain that 
they were poor; their clothes were coarse 
and old, and had been made by inexperi- 
enced hands. The mother's bonnet alone 
would have been enough to have con- 
demned the whole party on any of the 
world's thoroughfares; but her face was one 
which gave you a sense of rest to look upon 
— it was so earnest, tender, true, and strong. 
The children — two boys and two girls — 
were all under the age of twelve, and the 
youngest could not speak plainly. 

They had had a rare treat. They had 
been visiting the mountains, and they were 
talking over all the wonders they had seen 
with a glow of enthusiastic delight which 
was to be envied. In the course of the day, 
there were many occasions when it was nec- 
essary for her to deny requests, and to ask 
services, especiall}' from the oldest boy ; bui 
no young girl, anxious to please a lover, 
could have done either with a more tender 
courtesy. She had her reward; for no lover 
could have been more tender and manly 
than was this boy of twelve. 

Their lunch was simple and scanty; but 
it had the graces of a royal banquet. At 
the last the mother produced three apples 
and an orange, of which the children had 



A C O U R TB O U S M O Til E R . 



465 



not known. All eyes fastened on the orange. 
It was evidently a great rarity. I watclied 
to see if this test would bring out selfishness. 
There was a little silence — just the shade of 
a cloud. The mother said: " How shall I 
divide this? There is one for each of you; 
and I shall be best off of all, for I expect 
big tastes from each." "Oh, give Annie 
the orange; Annie loves oranges," spoke out 
the oldest boy, with the sudden an- of a con- 
queror, at the same time taking the smallest 
and worst apple himself. " Oh, yes, let 
Annie have the orange," echoed the second 
boy, nine years old. " Yes, Annie may 
have the orange, because that is nicer than 
the apples, and she is a lady, and her broth- 
ers are gentlemen," said the mother, quietl}'. 

Then there was a merry contest as to who 
should feed the mother wi.h the largest and 
most frequent mouthfuls. Annie pretended 
to want apple, and exchanged thin, golden 
strips of orange for bites out of the cheeks 
of Baldwins. As I sat watching her in- 
tently, she sprang over to me saying: 
"Don't you want a taste, too? " The mother 
smiled understandingly, when I said: "No, 
I thank you, you dear, generous little girl; 
I don't care about oranges." 

At noon, we had a tedious interval of 
waiting at a dreary station. We sat for two 
hours on a narrow platform, which the sun 
had scorched till it smelt of heat. The 
oldest boy held the youngest child, and 
talked to lier, while the tired mother closed 
her eyes and rested. The two other chil- 
dren were toiling up and down the banks of 
the railroad track picking ox-eye daisies, 
buttercups, and sorrel. They worked like 
beavers, and soon the bunches were almost 
too big for their little hands. Then they 
came running to give them to their mother. 
" Oh, dear," thought I, " how that poor, 
tired woman will hate to open her eyes! 
She never can take those great bunches of 
common, fading flowers, in addition to all 
her bundles and bags." I was mistaken. 



" Oh, thank you, m)' darlings! How kind 
you are! Poor, ho:, tired little flowers — 
how thirsty they look ! If they will only 
keep alive till we get home, we will make 
them very happy in some water, won't we?' 
And you shall put one buncli hy papa's 
plate and one by mine." 

She took great trouble to get a string and 
tie up the flowers; and then the train came,, 
and we were whirling along again. Soon it 
grew dark, and little Annie's head nodded. 
Then I heard the mother say to the oldest 
boy: " Dear, are 30U too tired to let little 
Annie put her head on your shoulder and 
take a nap? We shall get her home in 
m.uch better ease to see papa, if we can 
manage to give her a little sleep." How 
many boys of twelve hear such words as 
these from tired, overburdened mothers? 
Soon eame the city, the final station, with its- 
bustle and noise. I lingered to watch my 
happy family, hoping to see the father. 
"Why, papa isn't here!" exclaimed one 
disappointed voice after another. " Never 
mind," said the mother, with a still deeper 
disappointment in her tone; "perhaps he 
had to go to see some poor body who is 
sick." 

In the hurry of picking up all the parcels, 
the poor daisies and buttercups were left 
forgotten in a corner of the rack. I won- 
dered if the mother had not intended this. 
May I be forgiven for the injustice! A few 
minutes after, I passed the little group, 
standing still, just outside the station, and 
heard the mother say: " Oh, my darlings, 
I have forgotten your pretty flowers. I am 
so sorry! I wonder if I could find them, if 
I went back. Will you all stand still and 
not stir from this spot, if I go?" "Oh, 
mamma, don't go, don't go! We will get 
you some more. Don't go!" cried all the 
children. " Here are your flowers, madam," 
said I. "I saw that you had forgotten 
them, and I took them as mementos of you 
and your sweet children." She blushed and 



466 



THE DARK FORE ST OF SOR ROW. 



looked disconcerted. She was evidently 
unused to people, and shy with all but her 
children. However, she thanked me 
sweetly, and said : " I was very sorry about 
them. The children took such trouble to 
get them ; and I think they will revive in 
water. They can not Vje quite dead." " They 
will itcver die!" said I, with an emphasis 
wiiich went from my heart to hers. Then 
all her shyness fled. She knew me; and we 
shook hands, and smiled into each other's 
eyes with the smile of kindred as we parted. 
As I followed on, I heard the two chil- 
dren, who were walking behind, saying to 
each other: "Wouldn't that have been too 
bad? IMamma liked them so much, and we 
never could have got so many all at once 
again." " Yes, we could, too, next summer," 
said the boy sturdily. They are sure of their 
" next summers," I think, all six of those souls 
— children, and mother, and father. They 
may never again gather so many daisies and 
buttercups " all at once." Perhaps some of 
the little hands have already picked their 
last flowers. Nevertheless, their summers 
are certain. Heaven bless them all, where- 
ever they are! 



THE DARK FOREST OF SORROW. 

T was a glorious night. The moon had 
sunk, and left the quiet earth alone 
yvith the stars. It seemed as if, in the 
silence and the hush, while we her children 
slept, they were talking with her, their sis- 
ter — conversing of mighty mysteries in 
voices too vast and deep for childish human 
ears to catch the sound. 

They awe us, these strange stars, so cold, 
so clear. We are as children whose small 
feet have strayed into some dim-lit temple 
of the god they have been taught to wor- 
ship, but know not; and, standing where 
the echoing dome spans the long vista of 



the shadowy light, glance up, half hoping, 
half afraid to see some awful vision hover- 
ing there. And yet it seems so full of com- 
fort and of strength — the night. In its great 
presence, our small sorrows creep away, 
ashamed. The day has been so full of fret 
and care, and our hearts have been so full of 
evil and of bitter thoughts, and the world 
has seemed so hard and wrong to us. Then 
Night, like some great loving mother, 
gently lays her hand upon our fevered head, 
and turns our little tear-stained faces up to 
hers, and smiles; and, though she does not 
speak, we know what she would say, and 
lay our hot flushed cheek against her bosom, 
and the pain is gone. 

Sometimes, our pain is very deep and 
real, and we stand before her very silent, 
because there is no language for our pain, 
only a moan. Night's heart is full of pity 
for us; she can not ease our aching; she 
takes our hand in hers, and the little world 
grows very small and very far away beneath 
us, and, borne on her dark wings, we pass 
for a moment into a mightier Presence than 
her own, and in the wondrous light of that 
great Presence, all human life lies like a 
book before us, and we know that pain and 
sorrow are but the angels of God. 

Only those who have worn the crown of 
suffering can look upon that wondrous light; 
and they, when they return, may not speak 
of it, or tell the mystery they know. 

Once upon a time, through a strange 
country, there rode some goodly knights, 
and their path lay by a deep wood, where 
tangled briars grew very thick and strong, 
and tore the flesh of them that lost their 
wa)' therein. And the leaves of the trees 
that grew in the wood were very dark and 
thick, so that no ray of light came through 
the branches to lighten the gloom and 
sadness. 

And, as they passed by that dark wood, 
one knight of those that rode, missing his 
comrades, wandered far away and returned 



HE AV ENLY HOPE. 



469 



to them no more; and they, sorely grieving, 
rode on without Iiim, mourning liim as one 
dead. 

Now, when they reached the fair castle 
toward which they had been journeying, 
they stayed there many days, and made 
merry; and one night, as they sat in cheer- 
ful ease around the logs that burned in the 
great hall, and drank a loving measure, 
there came the comrade they had lost, and 
greeted them. His clothes were ragged, 
like a beggar's, and many sad wounds were 
on his sweet flesh, but upon his face there 
shone a great radiance of deep joy. 

And they questioned him, asking him 
what had befallen him ; and he told them 
how in the dark wood he had lost his way, 
and had wandered many days and nights, 
till, torn and bleeding, he had lain him 
down to die. 

Then, when he was nigh unto death, lo! 
through the savage gloom there came to 
him a stately maiden, and took him by the 
hand and led him on through devious paths, 
unknown to any man, until upon the dark- 
ness of the wood there dawned a light 
such as the light of day was unto but as a 
little lamp unto the sun; and, in that won- 
drous light, our way-worn knight saw, as in 
a dream, a vision, and so glorious, so fair 
the vision seemed, that of his bleeding 
wounds he thought no more, but stood 
as one entranced, whose joy is deep as is the 
sea, whereof no man can tell the depth. 

And the vision faded, and the knight, 
kneeling upon the ground, thanked the 
good saint who into that sad wood had 
strayed his steps, so he had seen the vision 
that lay there hid. 

And the name of the dark forest was 
Sorrow ; but of the vision that the good 
knight saw therein we may not speak nor 
tell. 



HEAVENLY HOPE. 

THE question often is asked, "If 
Christians in heaven know all that is 
transpiring upon earth, suppose a 
sainted mother sees a son or a daughter here 
going in the ways of ruin, how can she be 
happy ? " 

This is a mystery which God has not yet 
explained to us. 

It seems, now, impossible that a mother 
can be happy in heaven with her child for- 
ever banished from her. But let us remem- 
ber that God is more truly the parent of 
every being on earth than its earthly father 
or mother can possibly be. 

We are God's sons and daughters in a fat 
higher sense than we are the sons ot 
daughters of our earthly parents. God made 
our bodies and our spirits. God became 
man, and, by His own humiliation and suf- 
ferings upon the cross, made atonement for 
our sins. Year after year, with yearning 
utterance, God has cried out to us: "My 
son, my daughter, give me thine heart," 
Yes, God is our father in a far more exalted 
sense than any earthly parent can be. 
Earthly love is frail and variable. God's 
love is unchanging. 

In the heavenly world we shall be like 
God. "Beloved, now are we the sons o£ 
God, and it doth not yet appear what we 
shall be; but we know that when He shall 
appear we shall be like Him." / John., Hi. 2. 
God will open to us there views of which 
here we can form no conception. And if 
God, our living. Heavenly Father, can be 
happy on His eternal throne while some of 
His children are in persistent rebellion agams. 
Him and are suffering the rebels' dreadful 
doom, earthly parents, translated to heaven, 
shaiing God's nature, with souls ennobled, 
expanded, illumined with celestial light, will 
certainly witness nothing in the administra- 
tion of God's government which will thrill 
their souls with anguish. 



470 



COMFORTABLE WORDS. 



The intelligence of every hearer will 
assent to the remark that it can not be that 
our happiness in heaven will be based upon 
our ignorance. It can not be that God, in 
order to save us from sorrow, will, when we 
are in heaven, find it necessary for our happi- 
ness to conceal from us what is transpiring 
under His government. There we shall be 
like God, and shall know even as we are 
known. 

The question may arise, " What bearing 
has this subject upon the doctrine of modern 
Spiritualism ?" It is sufficient to remark that 
in all the descriptions which the Bible gives 
us of the visits of angels to this world, they 
came in dignity worthy of their exalted 
character. They were ever intrusted with 
the fulfillment of some sublime miss'on — as 
in all the instances recorded in the Old 
Testament; as in the annunciation to the 
Virgin; as when the celestial retinue accom- 
panied the Son of God to His birth in the 
manger; as when Moses and Elias, in antici- 
pation of the dreadful scenes of the cross 
met Jesus upon the Mount of Transfigura- 
tion. 

It will require stronger evidence than has 
ever yet been presented to my mind to lead 
me to believe that the spirits of the just 
made perfect in heaven can ever come to 
earth in degrading guise, performing ignoble 
functions and bearing but idle tales. 

It must be to all minds a cheering thought 
that our loved ones in heaven are still with 
us in spirit on earth. It is a cheering 
thought that when we die we shall still be 
interested in all that is transpiring on this 
globe; that we shall know, far more 
intimately than we can now know, every 
event which is taking place here. Our 
vision is now limited. Then we shall 
embrace in one view all the nations, tribes, 
and families, from the Equator to the Poles. 
Such is the prospect which is presented 
to the Christian in the future world Such 
is the home, and such the enjoyments we 



may have forever. To extricate man from 
the ruin in which he is involved by the fall, 
Jesus, the Son of God, has died, in atoning 
sacrifice, upon the cross. To influence the 
sinner to abandon rebellion, and return to 
his allegiance to the Heavenly King, the 
Holy Spirit pleads in all the earnest voices 
of nature and of Providence. And our 
Heavenly Father bends over us with 
parental love. His earnest entreaty being: 
" My son, my daughter, give me thine 
heart." 

Reader, can you renounce such offers, and 
live in rejection of the Saviour, when such 
love invites, and when such dignity and 
glory are offered to you? Become a Chris- 
tian, and your life upon earth will be far 
more happy than it can otherwise be; your 
nature will be ennobled as your name is 
enrolled in the sacramental hosts of God's 
elect; you may then lead others to the Sav- 
iour, and thus be a co-worker with God in 
redeeming a lost world. 

Become a Christian, and death shall then 
be to you but translation to a higher and 
nobler sphere of action; then, through all 
the ages of immortality, you shall soar in 
perfect holiness and ever-increasing bliss. 
Every possible consideration urges you to 
become a Christian. To accept Jesus as 
your Saviour brings upon 3'ou, eventually, 
every conceivable blessing. To reject Him 
dooms you to woe. Delay not this decision. 
Every hour of delay is full of peril. Now 
is the accepted time. To-morrow, to you, 
may never come. 



COMFORTABLE WORDS. 

NOT always can we tell when the 
most vivid lightning and startling 
thunder are to come. Light clouds 
gather here and there, the sun is temporarily 
obscured, nothing ominous appears in air or 
sky, %vhen, quick as thought, the atmosphere 



COMFORTABLE WORDS. 



471 



seems bursting with crash and peal and roar 
and flashings of fire, that leave a wonder 
that everything is not shivered and aflame. 

Again the sun shines, and a light shower 
falls. Soon a rainbow's broad and brilliant 
arch repeats itself on the inky clouds that 
bank the east. A little later sunset tints of 
surpassing beauty, pale-blue and amber, 
brown and gold, sea-green and rose, purple 
and gray, paint floating argosies of cloud 
that rise from the bosom o\ the west, linger 
at the north, like ships at anchor, then slowly 
pass from sight where the fading arches had 
been. Long rifts of clearer sky, like far- 
off, tinted seas, exquisite and of varying 
color, stretch beyond and between the shift- 
ing fleet. 

Some of the saddest experiences of life 
come without premonition. Yesterday life 
went well, hope was in the ascendant; it was 
easy to be content. To-day all is reversed ; the 
crushed heart can scarcely lift itself to pray; 
speech seems paralyzed. It appears cruel 
that such calamity should be permitted when 
we might have been so happy. Was there 
not some way by which it could have been 
foreseen and avoided? Where are life's 
compensations now ? What are its ambitions 
worth in the face of this? 

In other homes and in the busy streets 
move on, in close procession, life's hurrying 
cares. There is no pause with the world at 
large because grief and desolation sit at our 
hearthstone. 

The clanging bells, from their high 
towers, call to worship and to prayer. 
Their voices are unutterably sad. They 
did not sound like this a w^eek ago. A 
ripple of childish laughter floats into the 
lonely house. Across the street a proud 
father leads his innocent, sunny-haired bo}'. 
Farther on a cheerful mother walks With 
her trio of little ones. They are not tear- 
ful, or anxious, or bereaved; and their hap- 
piness, which yesterday would have made 
us glad, to-day smites us with a keen sense 



of contrast. Night comes on, with its 
gathering silence and shadow, and is even 
more dreadful than the day. Thinking of 
the loved dead at night, our thoughts, per 
force, take the gloom of the grave where 
their bodies lie; but Nature is tender and 
God is merciful, and there is sure to come 
with the triumphant dawn some bright and 
comforting thought of that morning-land 
where their souls are dwelling. 

For the saddest day some duty v^^aits; and 
when one would with folded hands keep 
idle company with grief, temporary con- 
solation comes unbidden. A little child, 
with its unceasing activity, its numberless 
wants, its quick recovery from tears, its 
wonder that we can not be entirely consoled 
by its caresses and comforted with its toys — 
even this shallow comprehension of the 
storm that is beating at one's heart, is better 
than to be left in uninterrupted communion 
with sadness. 

Whatever the loss, ours is not long a soli- 
tary case. To the one who has it to bear, 
every trial is a peculiar trial. When God's 
hand hath touched us we shrink and cry; 
" What have I done that this calamity should 
fall on me?" We question if there " is any 
sorrow^ like unto our sorrow." If we take 
thought only of our own cross, it appears 
the heaviest of any. But when we begin 
to recognize the losses and trials of others, 
and extend a helpful sympath}' even beyond 
our family and household, we experience 
the blessedness of giving in a way to react 
upon and comfort our own hearts. 

Our burdens, whether of bereavement or 
disappointment, or wrong or regret, weigh 
heavier or lighter at different times, accord- 
ing to our moods and occupations, or the 
want of them. We find some way to bear 
the grief we can not escape and which ira 
prospect we could not endure. Bitter, in- 
deed, would be all chastening, if no good 
came of it. Who shall say that this rending 
of the soul, this breaking up of all the depths 



473 



BIND UP THE BROKEN-HEARTED, 



of our nature, this strain upon our capacities 
for suffering, is but tlie inevitable cliance- 
work of existence? 

What does it mean? " Tliat the trial of 
your faith being much more precious than 
of gold that perisheth, though it be tried 
with fire, might be found unto praise, and 
honor, and glory, at the appearing of Jesus 
Chiist." Were we perfect in sympathy? 
Was our charity unfailing? Lacked we not 
in all directions that symmetry of faith and 
purity of practice needed to effect a resem- 
blance to the divine model? Would we be 
strong? We must often be put to the trial 
of our strengtin. Covet we the best gifts? 
They are not granted to the undisciplined. 

We " rise on stepping stones of our dead 
selves to higher things." No one soul is so 
obscure that God does not take thought for 
its schooling. The sun is the central light 
of the universe, but it has a mission to the 
ripening corn and the purpling clusters of 
the vine. The sunshine that comes filtering 
through the morning mists, with healing in 
its wings, and charms all the birds to sing- 
ing, should have also a message from God 
to sad hearts. No soul is so grief-laden that 
it may not be lifted to sources of heavenly 
comfort by recognizing the Divine love in 
the peipetual recurrence of earthly blessings: 

The night is mother of the day, 

The winter of the spring; 
And even upon old decay 

The greenest mosses cling. 
Behind the cloud the star-light lurks; 

Through showers the sunbeams fall; 
For God, who loveth all His works, 

Hath left His hope with all. 



BiND UP THE BROKEN-HEARTED. 

IT is a beautiful figure, this binding up — 
as though the Crucified One took the 
liniment and the strapping and put it 
round the broken heart, and with His own 
dear, gentle hand proceeded to close up the 



wound and make it cease to bleed. Jesus 
never fails in His surgery. He whose own 
heart was broken knows how to cure broken 
hearts. If you have that broken heart 
within you, beloved, Christ came to cure 
you; and He will do it, for He never came in 
vain. "He shall not fail nor be discouraged.' 
With sovereign power anointed from on 
high, He watches for the worst of cases. 
Heart disease, incurable by man, is Christ's 
specialty. His Gospel touches the root of 
the soul's ill, whence are the issues of life. 
With pitv, wisdom, power, and condescen- 
sion, He bends over our broken bones, and 
ere He has done with them He makes them 
all rejoice and sing glory to His name. 

C. H. Spukgeon. 



THE maelstrom attracts more notice 
than the quiet fountain; a comet 
draws more attemtion than the steady 
star; but it is better to be the fountain than 
the maelstrom, and star than comet, following 
out the sphere and crbit of quiet i.sefulness 
in which God places us. 

John Hall, D. D. 



LOSS, 

WE are joined together, many of us by a 
common experience. Many of us 
have met in each other's houses 
and in each other's company on just such 
errands of grief and sympathy and Christian 
triumph as this. How many of us have sent 
ch Idren forward ; and how many of us feel 
to-day that all things are for our sakes; and 
that those things which for the present are 
not joyous but grievous, nevertheless work 
in us the peaceable fruit of righteousness! 
So we stand in what may be called a rela- 
tionship of grief. We are knit together and 
brought into each other's company by the 



L OSS. 



475 



ministration of grief, made Christian and 
blessed. 

To be sure, if we were to ask this hfe 
whatwould be best, there is no father, there 
is no mother, who would not plead with all 
the strength which lies in natural affection, 
" Spare me, and spare mine." For the out- 
ward man this is reasonable and unrebukable ; 
and yet, if it be overruled by Him who loves 
us even better than He loves His own life, 
then there comes the revelation of another 
truth, namely: That the things which are 
seen are the unreal things, and that the real 
things are the things which are invisible. 

When our children that are so dear to us 
are plucked out of our arms, and carried 
away, we feel, for the time being, that we 
have lost them, because our body does not 
triumph; but are they taken from our 
inward man? Are they taken from that 
which is to be saved — the spiritual man? 
Are they taken from memory? Are they 
taken from love? Are they taken from the 
scope and reach of the imagination, which^ 
in its sanctified form, is only another name 
for faith? Do we not sometimes dwell with 
them more intimately than we did when 
they were with us on earth ? The care of 
them is no longer ours, that love-burden we 
bear no longer, since they are with the angels 
of God and with God ; and we shed tears over 
what seems to be our loss; but do they not 
hover in the air over our heads? And to- 
day could the room hold them all? 

As you recollect, the background of the 
Sistine Madonna, at Dresden (in some 
respects the most wonderful picture of 
maternal love which exists in the world), 
for a long time was merely dark; and an 
artist, in making some repairs, discovered a 
cherub's face in the grime of that dark back- 
ground ; and being led to suspect that the 
picture had been overlaid by time and neg- 
lect, commenced cleansing it; and as he went 
on, cherub after cherub appeared, until it 
was found that the Madonna was on a 



background made up wholly of little heav- 
enly cherubs. 

Now,b}- nature, motherhood stands against 
a dark background ; but that background 
being cleaned by the touch of God, and by 
the cleansing hand of faith, we see that the 
whole heaven is full of Itttle cherub faces. 
And to-day it is not this little child alone 
that we look at, which we see only in the 
outward guise; we look upon a background 
of children innumerable, each one as sweet 
to its mother's heart as this child has been 
to its mother's heart, each one as dear to the 
clasping arms of its father as this child has 
been to the clasping arms of its father; and 
it is in good company. It is in a spring- 
land. It is in a summer-world. It is with 
God. You have given it back to Him who 
lent it to you. 

Now, the giving back is very hard, but 
you can not give back to God all that you 
received with your child. You can not give 
back to God those springs of new and 
deeper affection which were awakened by 
the coming of the little one. You can not 
give back to God the experiences which 
you have had in dwelling with your 
darling. You can not give back to God the 
hours which, when you look upon them 
now, seem like one golden chain of linked 
happiness. 

You are better, you are riper, you are 
richer, even in this hour of bereavement, 
than you were. God gave; and He has not 
taken awa}', except in outward form. He 
holds, He keeps, He reserves. He watches, 
He loves. You shall have again that \vhich 
you have given back to Him only outwardly. 

Meanwhile, the key is in your hand; and 
it is not a black iron key ; it is a golden key 
of faith and of love. This little child has 
taught you to follow it. There will not be 
a sunrise or a sunset when you will not in 
imagination go through the gate of heaven 
after it. There is no door so fast that a 
mother's love and a father's love will not 



476 



vS UNS H INE. 



open it and follow a beloved child. And so, 
by its ministration, this child will guide you 
a thousand times into a realization of the 
great spirit-land, and into a faith of the in- 
visible, which will make you as much larger 
as it makes you less dependent on the body, 
and more rich in the fruitage of the spirit. 

To-day, then, we have an errand of 
thanksgiving. We thank God for sending 
this little gift into this household. We 
thank God for the light which He kindled 
here, and which burned with so pure a flame, 
and taught so sweet a lesson. And we 
thank God, that, when this child was to go 
to a better place, it walked so few steps, for 
so few hours, through pain. Men who look 
on the dark side shake their head, and say, 
"Oh, how sudden!" but I say, "Since it was 
to go, God be thanked that it was permitted 
to pass through so brief a period of suffer- 
ing; that there were no long weeks or 
months of gradual decay and then a final 
extinction; that out of the fullness of health 
it dropped into the fullness of heaven, leav- 
ing its body as it lies before you to-day, a 
thing of beauty. Blessed be God for such 
mercy in the ministration of sickness and of 
departure! " 

I appreciate your sorrow, having myself 
often gone through tliis experience; and I 
can say that there is no other experience 
which throws such a light upon the storm- 
cloud. We are never ripe till we have been 
made so by suffering. We belong to those 
fruits which must be touched by frost before 
they lose their sourness and come to their 
sweetness. I see the goodness of God in 
this dispensation as pointing us toward 
heaven and immortality. In this bereave- 
ment there is cause for rejoicing; for such it 
is that you and your child shall meet again 
never to be separated. 



SUNSHINE. 

AMONG the readers of this paper 
there must be many who " wear 
mourning." Every minister, as he 
runs his eye over his congregation, sees the 
black badge of sorrow in every part of the 
house. Yet many of the deepest and sorest 
griefs of the heart do not hoist any outward 
signal of distress. For who ever puts on 
crape for a family disgrace, or a secret 
heartache, or loss of character, or an acute 
contrition for sin, or a back-sliding from 
Christ? Set it down as a fact that God sees 
ten-fold more sorrow than the human eye 
ever detects. 

What a clear streak of sunshine our Lord 
let into this region of sorrowing hearts 
when He pronounced that wonderful bene- 
diction: "Blessed are Ihey that mourn!" 
Perhaps some poor Galilean mother who 
came up that day to hear Jesus of Nazareth, 
with her eyes red from weeping over a lost 
child, whispertd to herself: "That is for 
me; I am a mourner." "Ah!" thought 
some penitent sinner, who felt the 
plague of his guilty heart, "that means me; 
I am in trouble to-day." It did mean them. 
Christ's religion is the first and only religion 
ever known in this world which recognizes 
human sorrow, and has any sunshine of con- 
solation for broken hearts. Do cold-blooded 
infidels realize that fact when they attempt 
to destroy men's faith in the Gospel of 
Calvary? 

We are apt to limit this benediction of 
Jesus to one class of sufferers. We take 
this sweet little text into sick-rooms, or to 
funerals, or into the lonely group which 
gather around a mother's deserted chair or a 
little empty crib. It was meant for them. 
It has fallen upon such stricken hearts like 



6- UNS H I N E. 



AIT 



the Ejen'le rain upon the new-mown grass. 
Many of us know full well how good the 
balm felt when it touched our bruised and 
bleeding hearts. I remember how, when 
one of my own "bairns" was lying in his 
fresh-made grave, and anotherone was so low 
that his crib seemed to touch against a tomb, 
I used to keep murmuring over to myself 
Wesley's matchless lines: 

Leave, oh leave me not alone, 
Still support and comfort me! 

In those days I was learning (what v/e 
pastors have to learn) just how the arrow 
feels when it enters, and just how to sympa- 
thize with our people in their bereavements. 
Somehow a minister is never fully ready to 
emit the fragrance of sympathy for others 
until he has been bruised himself. There is 
a great lack about all Christians who have 
never suffered. Paul abounded in consola- 
tion because he had known sharp tribulations 
in his own experience. What a precious 
spilling of his great sympathetic heart that 



was when he overflowed into that sublime 
passage which ends the fourth and begins 
the fifth chapter of his Epistle to the Corin- 
thians. The outward man perishing — 
the inward man renewed day by day. The 
affliction growing " light " in proportion to 
the transcendent weight of the eternal glory ! 
The old tent dropping to pieces and the 
heavenly mansion looming up so gloriously 
that his homesick soul longed to quit the 
fluttering tent, and to " be present with the 
Lord." These are indeed mighty consola- 
tions to bear with us into our houses of 
mourning. They are the foretastes which 
make us long for the full feast and the 
seraphic joys of the marriage-supper of the 
Lamb. We experience what the old godly 
negro, " Uncle Johnson," did when he said; 
"Oh, yes, massa, I feel bery lonesome since 
my Ellen died, but dende Lord comes round 
ebery day and gibs me a taste ob de king- 
dom^ jus' as a nus w^ould wid de spoon; but 
oh, how I wants to get hold ob de -whole 
dish ! " 



DOLLY'S POSTMASTER. 



/^ 




I .' \ \ _\ _ \ \'^ 



-■ '- i Li r \ I L I ; 



DOLLY'S POSTMASTER, 



By Grace Malcolmson, 



AMONG the grand old mountains of 
Vermont there nestles a tiny village, 
looking wonderfully small and insig- 
nificant beside its historic neighbors, and 
seeming to beg their protection from the 
heavy storms which fall to that part of the 
country. 

Up the side of a mountain, quite remote 
from all other dwellings, is a little brown 
cottage. Everything around it denotes 
poverty. The patches m the roof, and the 
windows, several of which are broken, have 
been covered up with boards. In the sum- 
mer, as the bare vines indicate, these defects 
are hidden, but now, when nature has taken 
away her friendly foliage and given nothing 
back, the wjiole placelooks desolate. 

Inside it is very little better. The room is 
scrupulously clean, and as fuel can be had 
for the cutting, it is warm. Behind the 
roaring stove sits an old man, with hair as 
white as the tops of the mountains,and a bent 
and withered form. 



At a table is the care-worn mother, work- 
ing steadily by the waning light. 

A child's voice breaks the silence. 

"Mamma, what is Christmas for?" 

"In memory of the birth of the Christ- 
child, Dolly." 

"But I thought you always got presents 
on Christmas eve?" 

" Ah, my child, that is only for those who 
can afford it," replied the mother, laying 
down her work to answer the eager little 
questioner. 

" But, mamma," said Dolly, coming close 
to her mother's knee, " why don't those 
who are rich give presents to us?" 

" Perhaps they don't know about us, 
Dolly," stroking the excited little face 
upturned to hers. " There are people in the 
big cities like New York and Boston who 
give away loads of things on Christmas eve 
If father does well by the trees this month 
we will have a Christmas, too." 

Dolly said no more. It must have been 




t AM HAPPIER TO-DAY THAN YESTERDAY. 



DOLLY'S POSTMASTER. 



4S1 



the hope of this that kept her busy tongue 
so quiet. Even when her father and little 
Jack came home she had nothing to say. 

" What makes my little girl so quiet 
to-night?" asked her father. 

" I was thinking, papa," she replied, 
" thinking of Christmas." 

The next morning as soon as it was pos- 
sible she slipped out of the house into the 
woods. Dolly had an idea. A most brill- 
iant one. On and on her little feet carried 
her into a grove of evergreen trees. 
Here she stopped. Had anyone been 
watching her they would have been amused 
by her proceedings. But no one save the 
robins and a friendly squirrel was near. 

First she seated herself on the ground 
and carefully took from her pocket a piece 
of paper and a pencil. These were rare 
things at the cottage and it was only by the 
greatest stealth she had procured any. 
Then she began to write, and this was what 
she wrote: 

" To the kind people ivko get this tree: 
i am a little girl, i live in Berwick Ver- 
mont i am ten yers old and my brother 
Jack is nine, we are very poor and i don't 
think we can hav any Crismus. mamma 
said rich people gave things away, will 
you send me some things i want a doll 
and a pare of mittens nice ones with 
little bows on them and a new hood 
and som candy, and Jack wants a sled and a 
pare of skates and can you send mamma a 
shal 'cans hers is worn out. that is all. 

Dolly Brown." 

This Dolly folded up carefully, and then, 
jumping up, looked around her. She finally 
selected a very tall, handsome tree, and was 
in a minute half-way up to the top, for 
Dolly could climb like a squirrel. What 
little girl born in the mountains of Vermont 
could not? Then she produced a pin which 
was secreted in her dress and pinned her 
note to a twig near the tree, where it would 
not get blown away. 

After this she slipped down and sped 
home. In making her selection of the tree 



Dolly had not chosen at random. She 
knew that at a certain time of the year 
evergreen trees were cut down and shipped 
off to the large cities all over the States. 
This time was drawing near and every day 
for a week Dolly went to see if her tree was 
gone. As she neared the spot one morning 
she found the tree was cut down. Dolly 
was thrown into a fever of excitement. 
Would they send her anything? How long 
would she have to wait? These questions 
tormented her from early dawn to close of 
day. 

Time wore on and Christmas was at hand. 

In the rich and busy city of New York 
grand preparations were being made for 
Christmas. Every one seemed happy. 

Christmas fell on Friday, and on the pre- 
ceding Monday a heavy snowstorm fell, and 
the day promised to be a jolly one. 

In one of the churches a band of workers 
had met to decorate and fill an immense tree 
for the children of their Sunday school. For 
they intended giving their presents on 
Christmas eve. So tall was the tree that a 
many-stepped ladder was needed to reach 
the top. 

A young man had just ascended it and was 
searching among the heavily laden branches 
for a place for the toy he held, when sud- 
denly his hand struck something, and he 
caught hold of a little note pinned to the 
tree. 

"Hallo! what's this?" he exclaimed, and 
sitting down on the topmost step he opened 
and read aloud to his sympathetic listeners 
Dolly's little letter. 

"The little darling! she shall have every 
one of the things," exclaimed one of the 
ladies, wiping her eyes, for to her it seemed 
so sad to think of a little girl up in the 
mountains who could have no happy Christ- 
mas while their children were overloaded. 

" So she shall," cried the others in a chorus, 
while for a time the tree was forgotten in an 
eager discussion as to what else they could 



4S3 



ISABELLA 



Bend, Meanwhile Dolly had been anxiously 
waiting and enduring in silence, for some 
unaccountable reason she had told no one. 
Christmas day fell clear and cold, with a 
heavy fall of snow. 

About ten o'clock in the morning Mr. 
Brown, who was out-doors, heard a shout, 
and hurrying to the well-beaten path that 
led to the village saw two fellows driving a 
sleigh up the steep road. 

" I say, come down and help us up," they 
cried, but before he could reach them they 
had dragged a large packing box from the 
sleigh and borne it to the cottage door. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Brown, Dolly, and little 
Jack had come to the door. 

" Why, there must be some mistake, this 
can not be for us," said the father. 



"It's yours, all right; it belongs to the 
little 'un," replied one of the men. 

Sure enough, there was " Miss Dolly 
Brown " printed on the lid. 

" Oh! I am so glad it got there all right," 
cried Dolly ; then in a few incoherent words 
she poured forth her story. One of the men 
knocked off the lid. Mr. Brown lifted a 
note from the top and read it. 

" A very merry Christmas and happy 
New Year to the dear little girl in the 
mountains." Then slowly, one by one, 
Dolly unpacked her box. Every one of 
the things she had asked for and many 
more had been sent. I am sure that day 
there was no happier little girl in all the 
universe than Dolly Brown, far up in the 
sreen mountains of Vermont. 



ISABELLA. 



She had all the royal makings of a queen. 

— Shakespeare. 

IS ABELL A of Spain— "The Catholic," as 
she was called — stands before the world 
as a model of queenly and womanly 
excellence. In her, the energy of manhood, 
the wisdom of a statesman, the devout recti- 
tude of a saint, and the tenderness and grace 
of woman, were more perfectly combined 
than in any female sovereign whose name 
adorns the pages of history. Far as the east 
is from the west, and distant as their several 
periods, is the character of this renowned 
Castilian from that of the passionate and cun- 
ning Cleopatra. The beautiful conscien- 
tiousness of the former, her firm adherence 
to conviction, her delicacy and mercy and 
sweet humility, are a proof of the moral 



superiority resulting from the prevalence of 
Truth, however perverted or obscure it be, 
in the place of utter delusion whatever of 
classic attraction it may have. Oblivion has 
veiled her faults, if any belonged to her 
intrinsic being; she is left perfect to the eye 
of posterity, except it be in her almost inev- 
itable failure to assert at all times her own 
manifest and better instincts, over those 
influences of her life and time which go far 
to excuse the few blamable acts that may be 
charged upon her. 

And such a picture of character, fair as 
her own lovely countenance, is framed in 
the most picturesque era of modern history. 
The scenery and romantic associations of 
Spain, the conquest of the spendid Moorish 
kingdom of Grenada, the gorgeous evening 



ISABELLA. 



4S3 



of the day of chivalry, and the morning of 
great discoveries, heralded by Columbus, 
were the fit setting for the jewel of queens, 
or rather an appropriate scene for the dis- 
play of her noble qualities. The disappoint- 
ments she endured in the latter part of her 
life, the cruelties of which she was the 
unwitting or unwilling abettor, the bigotry 
that took advantage of her piety, and the 
despotism established by her husband, the 
artful Ferdinand, are the clouds that 
darken the narrative of a reign, else bright 
and beautiful. 

At her death, she touchingly expressed 
her affection for Ferdinand in the words 
which bequeathed to him some of her per- 
sonal property, "I beseech the king, my 
lord, that he will accept all my jewels, or 
such as he shall select, so that, seeing them, 
he may be reminded of the singular love I 
always bore him while living, and that I am 
now waiting for him in a better world; by 
which remembrance he may be encouraged 
to live more justly and holily in this." The 
same jewels, perhaps, not long after served 
to adorn a young, beautiful bride, the Prin- 
cess Germain de Foix of France, whom the 
unfaithful and politic Ferdinand led to the 
altar, in the same Duefias, where, in his 
youth, he had given his fresh vows to the 
devoted Isabella. 

Having addressed a few words of consola- 
tion to the weeping friends about her, some 
of whom had been the companions of her 



youth, she received the sacrament, and soon 
after expired, November 26, 1504, it being 
the fifty-fourth year of her age and the 
thirtieth of her reign. Her remains were 
conveyed to Grenada, as she had requested, 
but during the journey a severe and long- 
continued tempest made the roads nearly 
impassable, rendering the way desolate, and 
depressing with still deeper gloom, those 
who bore her beloved form to its plain 
tomb in the Alhambra. 

To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
The silent grave! 

Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
Id one dark wave. 

The people vied with each other in 
extolling the triumphant glories of her reign, 
and the wisdom and purity of her character 
— one that scarcely deserves the charge of ■ 
bigotry, since the two great errors of her 
administration were measures which she 
abhorred, and would never have allowed to 
be executed, had not her judgment been 
overruled by those upon whom she relied 
for spiritual guidance. 

Uniting the noblest masculine qualities 
with the finest and most lovable character- 
istics of woman, she secured the love and 
devotion of a nation still proud of that 
incomparable queen, upon whom was justly 
bestowed then, as now, the simple but elo- 
quent designation — "Isabella de la paz y 
bontad" — "Isabella of peace and goodness!" 



484 



THE CHRISTMAS RE UNI ON". 




THE CHRISTMAS REUNION. 



By Helen Sampson. 



«"V TOW, see here, Marion, if you per- 

I X^ sist in running all over Dorman in 
quest of scapegraces and vagabonds 
of poor I'll have to resort to more violent 
measures to keep you in the house." 

So spoke Squire Ormsby as Marion dis- 
mounted from her pony in front of the door. 

" But, father," she replied, as tears came to 
her beautiful blue eyes, <'even though we 
have plenty, and you are master of Ormsby 
Manor there are other poor folks in Dor- 
man who are starving." 

" Well, there are ways to provide for poor 
folks besides you galloping around the 
country like a child of ten instead of six- 
teen. Now, remember what I have said, and 
don't let me hear of you leaving the house 
on any such errand again." With this he 
strode into the house. 

Squire Ormsby was a short, aristocratic 
old gentleman, with a stern, commanding 
face. His wife having died several years 
before, he became embittered against life, 
and the only thing which he found it in his 
heart to love was the beautiful, flower-like 
Marion, although, even to her, he was 
sometimes stern and unrelenting. 

Ormsby Manor is situated in the most 
beautiful part of Dorman. 

Off to the right the sparkling lake rolls 



and splashes, as if desirous of tossing its 
billowy sprays to the glorious " God of 
Light." 

In the distance the tall arrowy pines brush 
their slender tops against the sky. 

Thus while nature had dealt kindly with 
the surroundings, artificial means had alsc> 
been employed to beautify Squire Ormsby's- 
mansion. 

Rustic bridges were stretched across little 
lakes, in which stately swans moved majes- 
tically to the music of the rippling fountains. 

The drives too were bordered with bright- 
hued flowers, whose perfume filled the air.- 

Marion remained standing where her 
father had left her. She knew to disobe}- 
his commands would bring down unheard-of 
wrath, yet her heart told herthat she must in 
some way return to the poor family in the 
village, whom she had comforted with the 
assurance that she would come back with 
provisions and help. 

Sadly she walked with her pony around 
the drive until she met the groom, when a 
sudden thought struck her. 

Running to him eagerly, she said : " John, 
I want you to go to the village on an errand 
for me the first thing in the morning. 
Don't in any way breathe of it, as I do not 
want father to know I have sent you." 




LITTLE PIXY PEOPLE. 



THE CHRISTMAS REUNION. 



487 



"All right, Missis," replied John; "you 
can depend on me. I'll see that the old gent 
don't git news of it." 

Hearing a step behind her, Marion turned 
quickly to meet the angry determined face 
of her father towering above her. 

" So, Marion," he said, firmly, " you 
thought to deceive me, eh? Well, you may 
retire to your room until such time as your 
good sense shall overcome your extreme 
charity. You, John," he said, turning to 
that cowering individual, " you may go to 
the village in the morning, but do not return 
here." 

Marion had been too embarrassed to 
speak before, but seeing that John was on 
the point of justifying himself, turned to her 
father and said : 

" Father, do not blame John ; it is entirely 
my fault; he was merely obeying me." 

" I heard the entire conversation, Marion. 
Do as I bid you and do not leave your room 
until I send for you." 

Marion was forced to retire. With a 
heavy heart she found her way to her room 
Her pale, determined little face showed that 
she inherited some of her father's indom- 
itable will. 

"I must and will contrive to assist those 
people. I can't see why papa is so heart- 
less. I have taken such a fancy to them 
that I am sure if papa would see them he 
would love them, too." 

Squire Ormsby sat in his library thinking. 
*' I wonder if I have been hard with Marion ; 
nevertheless, I want her to obey me." 

" I will send for her and see what her 
object was in being so obstinate." 

He touched a bell which was answered 
by a trim maid in uniform. 

" Tell Marion I want her. In the mean- 
time order the carriage for four o'clock. I'm 
goingout." 

Mar.ion appeared, her eyes red with weep- 
ing. She stood before her father as if ready 
to face the expected attack. Neither spoke. 



The silence was becoming embarrassing to 
her, when her father said: 

" I should like to know what those poor 
people are to you that you should openly ' 
disobey me and lower me in the esteem of 
the groom by leading him into the deception. 
Have they ever favored you, in any way, 
that you be so solicitous for their welfare?" 

" No, father," she answered, " they have 
never favored me; but, O! they are so 
poor, and I promised so faithfully to return 
to them. The woman's husband is dead and 
she is sick, she can not support herself, 
besides, she has a child nine years of age. 
Let me go to them, and at least make 
Christmas happy. They live in one of those 
old tenement houses in South Dorman, 
where the fire was about a month ago." 

" I did not send for you to compromise 
anything, I merely wanted an explana- 
tion." 

Marion's eyes filled with tears, as she saw 
her hopes again dashed to the ground. 

"Father," she said angrily, "if Mrs. 
Mangle and her child starve to death, it will 
be your fault!" With this she left the room. 

Squire Ormsby started at the mention 
of that name. " Mandle, Mandle, did she 
say ? That was Isabelle's husband's name. 
O, God 1 it can not be that my own sister 
wouM be starving while I sit idly by ; yet 
her child would be about nine years old, for it 
is ten years since I sent her, a mere child, 
from my house because she loved a poor 
man." 

Seeing the carriage at the door. Squire 
Ormsby hastily donned his hat and coat, and 
with a troubled countenance left the house, 
determined to invade the poorer part of 
Dorman in quest of Isabelle, his sister. 

Meanwhile, in an old tumble-down tene- 
ment in South Dorman, a woman lay on a 
low couch. The room was scantily fur- 
nished, there being scarcely the household 
utensils, and nothing whatever to relieve the 
awful bareness of the room. 



4S8 



THE CHRIS TM AS REUNION. 



The woman, who had once been beau- 
tiful, bore the look of long-time suffering 
and deprivation. Beside her knelt a child 
about nine years of age. 

" What did Mrs. Harris say, Carol dear?" 
the woman asked. 

" She said she could not pay you the 
money for the making of the waist, but 
would give it to you before Christmas." 

" O, what shall we do, mamma? We 
haven't anything to eat for to-morrow, and 
you are so hungry. It is a week before 
Christmas, and that lovely girl never re- 
turned." 

Mrs. Mandle's face grew paler as she 
clasped her child to her bosom. Suddenly a 
knock sounded at the door. 

" Go, Carol dear, maybe Mrs. Harris 
has sent the money after all." 

Carol opened the door, and beheld a short, 
aristocratic, but puffing, old gentleman, who 
asked if Mrs. Mandle was at home. 

While Carol returned to her mother. 
Squire Ormsby, for it was he, took a gen- 
eral survey of the place, and was shocked at 
the bareness of the surroundings. 

"Mamma would like you to come into the 
other room, as she is not able to get up." 

Squire Ormsby fairly ran past Carol in 
his eagerness to satisfy his mind. 



Eagerly scanning the half-raised figure on 
the couch, he darted forward as he recog- 
nized in the faded but graceful woman on 
ihe couch his long-lost sister Isabelle. 

" Isabelle!" he fairly shouted. 

"Robeit!" she exclaimed, and with a 
feeble cry she fell fainting in his arms. 
With the help of the bewildered Carol she 
soon regained consciousness. 

Then she told him of all she had suffered 
and how she had come as near to Ormsby 
as possible. But having failed in health she 
was unable to provide for herself and child. 

" We will thank Marion for having found 
you. Be ready when I come back, as I 
intend to take you immediately to Ormsby." 

Marion, sitting in the window, wondered 
at the strange looking trio coming up the 
drive, but was fairly stupefied when, upon 
descending the stairs, to find in company 
with her father, her poor folks of South 
Dorman. Greate-r still was her consterna- 
tion when she heard that they were her 
relatives. 

I will not dwell upon the joyous scenes 
which followed, nor the happy Christmas 
reunion in the Ormsby mansion. It will 
suffice to say, a happy change took place in 
that household, where peace and happiness 
reigned forevermore. 



JOSEPHINE. 



JOSEPHINE, 

A truer, nobler, trustier heart, 
More loving or more loyal, never beat 
Within a human breast. — Bybon. 

THE Island of Martinique claims the 
distinction of being the birth-place 
of Josephine, who was born the 24th 
day of June, 1763. Her father, M. de 
Tascher, was a man of influence and mod- 
erate wealth, possessing a large plantation 
and an ample retinue of slaves. He was a 
man of ambition and unyielding sternness, 
and to this, in a great measure, was owing 
the misfortunes which embittered Jos- 
ephine's early life, and threw her into the 
whirl of events that bore her on to greatness 
and suffering. 

Her childhood was spent in lively sports 
and amusements, attended by young 
negresses who were permitted to indulge 
her every whim, till, by unlimited indul- 
gence, her naturally sweet disposition was in 
danger of being spoiled. 

Fortunately, Madam de Tascher was wise 
enough to see this, and brought Josephine 
more within her own maternal influence, 
allowing her a larger share of the affection 
which had been almost exclusively bestowed 
upon the elder, more beautiful, and only 
sister — Maria. The latter, like her mother, 
was of a mild, unimpassioned temperament. 
Maria rarely participated in festivities, 
much preferring to pursue her studies, or to 
ramble alone. She was busily occupied in 
cultivating her talents, and acquiring those 
accomplishments deemed necessary to a 
woman of the world, in anticipation of a 
future home in France, where an aunt, in 
influential circumstances, had offered to pro- 
vide her with an establishment, and designed 
her hand for the son of the Marquis de 
Beauharnois. 

Josephine, on the contrary, looked upon 
the Island of Martinique as her continued 
home. 



Through all her childhood, she had shared 
her amusements with William de K — ., the 
son of English parents who had sought 
refuge in Martinique. The two children 
had grown up together in happy compan- 
ionship, and formed an attachment that was 
never effaced. When Josephine reached 
her twelfth year, she had made so little 
progress in her studies, though an apt 
scholar, that Madam de Tascher decided to 
send her to France and place her in a con- 
vent, till the completion of her education. 
But this was a terrible stroke to the young 
lovers, to whom separation would have been 
the greatest grief. By the most earnest 
assurances from Josephine, she was per- 
mitted to remain on trial. During the fol- 
lowing six months, she made such rapid 
progress as persuaded her mother to recall 
her threat; and she not only allowed her to 
continue her studies with William de K — ., 
under the same master, but, through the 
interposition of his mother,Josephine's hand 
was promised him conditionally. Thus 
they happily and lovingly remained together, 
studying, or rambling for shells along the 
sea-shore, carving their united names upon 
the trees, or gathering beautiful blossoms. 

Not long after M. de K — was called 
to England and was accompanied by his 
son, with the avowed purpose of pursuing 
his studies at Oxford; but, unknown to him- 
self or Josephine, the real object of the voy- 
age was to assert heirship to an estate which 
M. de K — was to inherit on conditian 
his son should marry the niece of the tes- 
tator. The months of silence that ensued, 
were so full of anxiety on Josephine's part, 
that her health was evidently suffering from 
it. No letter nor message came from the 
young Creole, who had seemingly -forgotten 
her in the new interests of the great world, 
yet she would not believe the representa- 
tions of her friends that he had ceased to 
love her. 



4yo 



JOSEPHINE. 



To console her, Madam de Tascher gath- 
ered young companions in their pleasant 
home, and endeavored to occupy her mind by 
an interest in the study of languages and 
accomplishing herself upon the harp. She 
possessed a sweet, plaintive voice, and that 
kind of talent which readily acquires any- 
thing placed within its reach, with little 
application. 

While the mansion was gay with the 
young Creole girls, a new excitement one 
day aroused them from a languid siesta. 
The fortune-telling fame of an old Irish 
woman reached their ready ear; curious to 
lift the veil of futurity, they one and all 
decided to consult the oracle. 

Josephine accompanied her companions; 
not quite willing to believe what might be 
predicted, yet she followed the gay party to 
the fortune-teller's hut. Their courage be- 
gan to fail, however, as they approached the 
dwelling; but, after some whispering hesi- 
tation as to who should dare to enter first, 
they summoned boldness enough to make 
their errand known. The old woman sat 
upon a cane mat in the center of the cabin, 
and perceiving the shrinking girls, called on 
them to come nearer. Each successively 
submitted her hand for inspection. Jose- 
phine presented hers last, though she would 
have gone away unenlightened but for the 
persuasions of her companions. The lines of 
her hand being attentively examined, she 
was told, " You will soon be married, but 
not to the one you love; the union will not 
be happy ; your husband will perish tragic- 
ally. You will then marry a man who will 
astonish the world, and you will become an 
eminent woman and possess a superior dig- 
nity." 

Not long after, the sudden death of 
Maria, who was in the midst of preparations 
for a voyage to France, cast a deep gloom 
over the family. The mother could not be 
consoled at the loss of her favorite daugh- 
ter. Touched by her mother's grief, Jose- 



phine determined to imitate her sister and 
fill the sad vacancy. At once the child be- 
came a woman. Her amusements, her 
reckless rambles, her gay companions, were 
all rejected, and she employed her hours in 
the most studious application. Her efforts 
and rapid progress surprised and attracted 
both her parents. At this time, the arrival 
of a package from France, and the proposals 
it contained, afflicted her with a new and 
serious anxiety. The wishes of her aunt to 
receive her in Maria's place, and also to be- 
stow her hand where her sister's had been 
promised, were quickly made known to 
her. 

" You promised me to William de K — ," 
replied she in surprise. But he assured her 
that was no barrier, as William was obliged 
to marry a joint-heir of the estate fallen to 
him. " Besides," said he, " William has for- 
gotten you; you should cease to think of 
one who has so neglected you." Knowing 
nothing of the affectionate and overflowing 
letters which her parents retained from her, 
she was persuaded to consent to what her 
father would allow no refusal of ; and after 
many tears, regrets, and useless entreaties, 
she separated from her family, her quiet 
home with all its happy associations, and left 
the wild and romantic island. To a young 
girl scarcely fifteen, it was a severe trial to 
be separated, perhaps forever, from her 
family, and more especially from the affec- 
tionate sympathy of an amiable, cultivated, 
judicious mother. 

She was kindly received at Marseilles 
by her aunt. During the ensuing month, 
Josephine could not overcome the de- 
pression of spirits, fast infringing upon 
her health, and not lessened by her 
knowledge of the presence of William 
de K — in Paris, his frequent attempts 
to see her, and the discovery of his 
unchanged affections. To see him would 
but add to their distress, since he was be- 
trothed to another, and the negotiations for 




THINKS I'm "only A KITTY." 



JOSEPHINE. 



493 



her own marriage were in progress; while, 
on the other hand, the young Viscount 
JReauharnois was extremely repugnant to the 
n.atch. Though he had admired the picture 
of Maria, he was extremely disappointed in 
/osephine, and at the same time was entirely 
■devoted to a Madame de V — , who pos- 
sessed his affections. 

Josephine, bewildei'ed and ill, but still 
•dutiful to the commands of her parents, per- 
mitted her aunt and the Marquis de Beau- 
harnois to use their influence with the 
■viscount; but she entreated permission to 
retire to a convent, on the plea of ill-health. 
Josephine remained there nearly a year, and 
at the expiration of that time, became the 
wife of Alexandre de Beauharnois. 

He is described as " an amiable, accom- 
plished man, of noble and dignified bearing 
and a favorite at court." He highly esteemed 
Josephine, but his unabated attachment for 
Madame de V — , together with the 
scandal continually poured into the ears of 
his wife, gave rise to such jealousy on her 
part as to destroy their domestic peace. The 
birth of her son Eugene for a time diverted 
her; but, through the maliciousness of her 
rival, Beauharnois in his turn became jealous 
of her early love; annoyed by her tears and 
reproaches, he left her, on plea of business, 
to remain several months at Versailles. 
Josephine then withdrew entirely from the 
gayety in which her new position had 
thrown her. Though her debut at court had 
been a flattering one, and the favors shown 
her by Marie Antoinette were sufficient to 
give eclat to her presence, yet she gladly 
escaped from the vortex of pleasure and 
retired to a quiet retreat at Croissy, where 
she resumed her long-neglected studies, suc- 
cessfully cultivating the talents that, now 
fully awakened, gave a more decided tone to 
her character. She was grieved at the 
neglect of her husband, but so was greatly 
consoled in her trials by the birth of Hor- 
tense, the more welcome since she was 



deprived of the society and care of her idol- 
ized toL. whom his father had placed at a 
private boarding-house. 

Hearing of Beauharnois' intentions to 
obtain a divorce, she retired to the convent, 
determined to remain till the suit was 
decided. Confident of her own innocence, 
and attached to the man, who was strangely 
blinded to her faithful affection, and over- 
whelmed with grief at the turmoil in which 
her sensitive heart was continually plunged, 
she shut herself within the gloomy walls of 
the Abbey. 

Hortense was her companion in this 
somber prison-house. Two weary years 
dragged away thus, serving at least to oblit- 
erate every trace of frivolity that might have 
remained from her light-hearted girlhood, 
and giving that dignity and composure to 
her manner which are the impress of long- 
continued grief. It enabled her to cultivate, 
though unconsciously, a fortitude of char- 
acter valuable in her after-trials. 

As soon as the Parliament at Paris had 
decided the suit of divorce in her favor, she 
determined to return to Martinique; but, 
unable to prevail upon Beauharnois to allow 
Eugene to accompany her, she was obliged 
to embark alone with Hortense. Two years 
of quiet home-life in her native island, some- 
what restored the natural cheerfulness of her 
tem;-er, yet the remembrance of her husband 
an(J son, widely separated from her, often 
disturbed the otherwise complete rest under 
her father's roof. 

The news of Beauharnois' acknowledg- 
ment of his wife's innocence and his readi- 
ness to receive her again, reawakened all 
her affection and had induced her to seek 
the shores of France, and reunite the divided 
family. They met at Paris. Hortense, 
who already gave promise of much beauty, 
was presented to her father in the free, 
graceful dress of a young Creole. He was 
surprised to find himself possessed of so 
lovely a daughter, while Josephine rejoiced 



494 



JOSEPHINE, 



equally in meeting with Eugene, from 
whom she had so long been separated. 
Several months of peaceful reconciliation 
succeeded, and Josephine was at last happy, 

Josephine listened with deep interest to 
the political discussions now carried on in 
her saloons, which were the resort of the 
most prominent members of the assembly; 
but she could not conceal her anxiety as to 
the future of France, and the fate of those 
who, she foresaw, were to take the lead in 
the rapidly approaching struggle. Beau- 
harnois preserved a mild, firm bearing 
throughout the storm that soon burst with 
frightful havoc upon the nation, remaining 
loyal to his king, whom he venerated and 
loved, while he saw and urged the necessity 
of the monarch's compliance with the 
demands of the people. 

In 1793, he was appointed general-in- 
chief of the army of the Rhine, He was 
accompanied during that short campaign by 
Eugene, then scarcely twelve years old, and 
who had already exhibited military capacity 
of a high order. In consequence of polit- 
ical difficulties and the withdrawal of the 
most efficient men from the army. General 
Beauharnois sent in his resignation, and on 
his return to France, was ordered to retire 
twenty leagues from the frontiers. He 
remained in quiet seclusion during a short 
period, until he fell under suspicion, was 
arrested, brought to Paris, and, like the host 
who already crowded the prisons, awaited in 
chains a speedy death. 

Madame Beauharnois was filled with 
terror at the news of the long-dreaded catas- 
trophe. She exerted all her influence and 
eloquence to save him, but only brought 
vengeance on her own head. She, too, was 
imprisoned in the gloomy walls of a monas- 
tery. Hortense was kindly cared for by a 
triend of Josephine, and Eugene was 
adopted by a poor artisan, with whom he 
labored, employing his leisure hours in study 
and military exercises. Madame Beauhar- 



nois was not alone in her imprisonment. 
Her room and the adjoining ones were 
occupied by ladies of rank, who, like her- 
self, suffered innocently and waited in 
hourly expectation of being led forth to 
execution. 

In the midst of all this terror and grief 
Madame Beauharnois preserved a calm, fear- 
less aspect. To inspire her terrified compan- 
ions with courage, she assured them it had 
been foretold she was to be Queen of 
France, and if the prophecy was to be ful- 
filled, they should surely escape death. 
Thus she consoled and amused her trem- 
bling companions, while at every entrance 
of the harsh, unfeeling jailer, they were 
nearly paralyzed with fear lest their tum 
had come to be conducted to the guillotine. 
To their own perilous condition was added 
a distressing anxiety for the fate of relatives. 
They managed to obtain journals in which 
were lists of the executed, but no one had 
courage to glance over those pages of 
crime, or could read with unfaltering voice 
the names of friends numbered among the 
victims of the bloody Robespierre. 

This was a task that fell upon Josephine, 
and it was a sad one; for the list often con- 
tained the names of fathers, brothers, or 
sons of the listeners, who received the sud- 
den intelligence with shrieks or heart-rend- 
ing groans, in which the rest sympathized 
with burning tears, knowing that they in 
their turn must feel the fierce tyrant's 
stroke. One morning, as Josephine read 
the list, she came to the name of her own 
husband. A cry of agony announced, to 
the pale group about her, what her lip& 
could not articulate, and she fell senseless to> 
the floor. Surrounded by companions to 
whom her kindness and gentleness had 
endeared her, she received every attention 
in their power to bestow, yet was restored 
with great difficulty. Repeated fainting- 
fits succeeded the shock, and the ensuing- 
illness delayed her execution. A few days 



y OSBPHINE. 



495 



afterward, a friend found means to allay 
the intense anxiety of the remaining prison- 
ers, by adroitly thrusting a slip of paper 
through the grating of the window; it con- 
tained the cheering words — " Robespierre 
and his accomplices are marked for accusa- 
tion — be quiet — you are saved!" What a 
relief to the long-continued fears of the 
exhausted prisoners! On the following day 
the great iron doors were thrown back, 
with what joy they left behind the grating 
locks, the barred windows, the cheerless 
cells, and breathed a pure, free air again! 
Then came the thought of beloved and dear 
faces they were to see no more, the remem- 
brance of the family circle broken. They 
could not seek even the fireside, doubly 
dear for the sake of the lost. Without 
home or shelter, they could only depend 
upon the bounty of those who had escaped 
such an accumulation of calamities. 

With nothing left of all her estates, her 
relations equally deprived of their wealth 
and unable to assist her, Josephine depended 
upon her own exertions and those of her 
young son Eugene, for support. To him 
she read and re-read the treasured letter 
Beauharnois had penned just before his ex- 
ecution. Full of touching affection, regret 
for the doubts he had ever entertained, of his 
wife's love, anxiety for her and the fate of 
their children, and overflowing with tender- 
ness toward them all — this last gift, these 
words of remembrance, were dwelt upon 
with tears by mother and son, while they 
fired Eugene with the wrongs of France, 
and made him impatient for the arm and 
voice of manhood. 

Straitened in their means, Josephine ap- 
plied to Tallien, and succeeded in obtaining 
a small indemnity from the public property. 
She educated her children by the exercise of 
her own abundant talents. 

Napoleon Bonaparte was now the rising 
star of France. He was received in society 
as a distinguished guest, notwithstanding his 



lack of noble blood. He commanded notice 
by his unqueitionable talent, energy, and am- 
bition, as well as by his exciting wit and 
eccentricities. He had heard much of 
Madame Beauharnois through a friend. He 
was also interested in her as the mother of 
Eugene, who attracted his particular com- 
mendation by the bold, manly freedom with 
which he had presented himself and de- 
manded the privilege of wearing his father's 
sword. 

Josephine and Napoleon met one day. 
The meeting was at the house of their 
mutual friend. 

Madame Beauharnois conceived the 
greatest dislike for Napoleon at this inter- 
view, which was not lessened during suc- 
ceeding visits. Her dislike for him increased 
so much that she finally tried to avoid him ; 
but, as she expresses it, " the more she sought 
to avoid him, the more he multiplied himself 
in her way." 

She was strongly urged to accept Napoleon. 
It was sometime, however, before she could 
give her consent to the proposals, or become 
interested in the singular man who professed 
the strongest attachment for her. When 
she finally promised her hand, she concealed 
the fact from all her friends, dreading their 
reproaches. Upon her marriage, which oc- 
curred March 9, 1796, two days before 
Bonaparte set out upon his campaign to , 
Italy, all Paris was in commotion at the un- 
expected event, and more especially her 
friends, from whom she had kept the secret. 

Josephine is described in this, her twenty- 
eighth year, as " by no means beautiful, but 
her manners and deportment were particu- 
larly graceful ; there was a peculiar charm 
in her smile and sweetness in her tones; she 
also dressed with an infinite degree of taste." 

During the three following months, 
nothing was talked of among the Parisians 
but the brilliant victories of the young general, 
who was striking terror in all Europe by 
his skillful strokes and unheard-of success. 



JOSEPHINE. 



He had already penetrated into the very 
heart of Italy. Couriers were daily de- 
spatched to Josephine, keeping her fully 
informed of all his movements. The victory 
of Milan achieved, the Austrians were con- 
quered, and the Italians paid homage to the 
daring commander; he won their admiration 
while he subdued them ; nothing was needed 
to complete his satisfaction but the presence 
of his wife to share his honors. In his 
frequent letters he entreated her to come. 
Readily obeying his slightest wish, she left 
Hortense to complete her education, and pro- 
ceeded by rapid stages to Italy — the land of 
sapphire skies, towering mountains, and hills 
luxuriant with fragrant vineyards, and rich 
in palaces and cathedrals, abounding in mag- 
nificent cities and enlivened with a popula- 
tion in gay and picturesque costumes. These 
scenes enchanted Josephine, who was ani- 
mated with a glowing appreciation of the 
beautiful and sublime. 

Napoleon gave her a cordial and enthusi- 
astic reception. The Milanese were full of 
curiosity and eagerness to behold the wife of 
the wonderful warrior. All the distin- 
guished and the elite of Milan paid court to 
Madame Bonaparte, who captivated them at 
once by her irresistible sweetness and affa- 
bility. If they had honored Napoleon 
before, their ardor and worship was redoubled 
at the additional charm with which the 
musical and loved name of Josephine 
invested him. Balls, fetes, and concerts suc- 
ceeded one another in bewildering profusion 
and magnificence, and the princes of the 
Italian states were outdone in the display 
and state of Madam Bonaparte's court. The 
expense occasioned by this outlay, together 
with her generous gifts, caused some reproof 
from Napoleon, but he was silenced by her 
adroit reasoning. "In some sort," said she, 
"your wife ought to eclipse the courts of the 
sovereigns who are at war with the French 
Republic." 



Napoleon continued his conquests, forcing 
his way even to the midst of Rome, 
while Josephine remained at Milan conquer- 
ing the hearts of the people. It was 
here in Italy that Napoleon learned the rare 
traits of his wife; he plainly saw she was 
to be henceforth indispensable to his advance- 
ment, security, and glory. Here she first 
acquired the strong influence over him that 
ceased only in her death. With the satisfac- 
tion of rendering his position safe by keep- 
ing him informed of the secret jealousies and 
intentions of the Directory in France; by a 
clear, unerring judgment, gaining a voice in 
his diplomatic measures as well as martial 
movements; by her address, securing an 
unbounded influence over the admiring Ital- 
ians; with nothing to fear and everything tc 
hope, Josephine was seeing her happiest 
days. She was sipping from the golden 
cup of fame and splendor, but like all the 
rest who partake its enticing draughts, she 
found bitter dregs underneath the sparkle 
and foam. 

After the campaign. Napoleon returnee 
in triumph to Milan, where Madame Bona- 
parte had remained. The round of pleasure 
quickly wearied the hero, w^ho delighted 
most in the sounds and excitement of the 
battle-field, to which he eagerly returned. 

Upon one occasion, she visited with 
Napoleon the singular and beautiful islands 
in Lake Maggiore, from which rose luxuri- 
ous villas, surrounded by terraced gardens, 
where the citron, myrtle, and fragrant 
orange trees perpetually blossomed and 
hung heavy with tempting fruit. These lay 
in the midst of the lake, and clear, glassy 
waters rippled here and there before the 
swift prows of "winged boats," plying to 
and from the Switzer's shores. Beyond, 
towered the Alps; the eye falling first upon 
vine-covered slopes, wandered farther ovei 
wooded heights, then above and beyond to 
where white and gray rocks, boldly outlined, 
shot up in snowy peaks, lost in a veil of blue 



JOSEPHINE. 



499 



mist that shaded into crimson when the rays 
of the evening sun had left the valley to 
linger in warmest colors upon the un- 
climbed heights. 

The beautiful city of Venice, too, called 
forth her enthusiastic encomiums. Its mass- 
ive palaces, costly churches, and wondrous 
bridges everywhere spanning the streets of 
water through which only noiseless gon- 
dolas continually plied ; its delicious gardens 
decorated with innumerable statues, vases, 
fountains; the gay, musical people, in end- 
less varieties of dress, everywhere lending a 
lively aspect, altogether gave an air of 
storied romance that threw the French 
women of Josephine's suite in ecstasies of 
delight. The Venetians greeted the wife 
of the victor with flattering honors, while 
she, with her characteristic generosity, lav- 
ished gifts and kindnesses upon them that 
riveted their extravagant adoration. 

By her thoughtful intervention, the rigors 
and devastation of war were in a measure 
checked. Cities were spared pillage, the 
vanquished treated magnanimously, and the 
helpless protected — acts which exalted and 
endeared her to the Italians far more than 
her gifts, and secured the devotion of her 
husband, half-jealous of her evident power. 
" I conquer provinces, Josephine conquers 
hearts," was his playful comment. 

Suspicious of the Directory, and knowing 
their wish and intention to dispose, in some 
way, of a man, whose growing power and 
ambition they had reason to fear, Napoleon 
suddenly and promptly returned to Paris, 
leaving Josephine at Milan. She was not 
suffered to remain long. Even the most virt- 
uously great do not escape malice and 
calumny; knowing this, Josephine could 
hardly have expected to have been spared 
the groundless scandal which was cunningly 
whi-pered into the ears of the impetuous, 
exacting, and jealous hero. Napoleon com- 
manded her immediate return, which she 
obeyed without delay. He received her 



with unkindness, and, for a time, their 
domestic harmony was interrupted. By the 
interposition of a friend a reconciliation was 
effected. 

Napoleon's restless ambition would not 
allow him luxurious repose, neither did the 
timid Director}' wish the presence of so 
dangerous a man. The French regarded 
him as their deliverer, and were alrer.dy fas- 
cinated with the name around which clusters 
so much glory and so much odium. Fearful 
of the results, the Directory gladly acqui- 
esced in the proposed expedition to 
Egypt, whicii thev hoped might give some 
pretext in the end for aspersions and dis- 
honor, if he did not fall in the contest. This 
he wisely foresaw, and left Josephine to 
guard his interests at home and use her un- 
limited influence to keep his star in the 
ascendency. 

Malmaison was her home during the year 
of the Syrian campaign. Without ostenta- 
tion, she remained in this beautiful retreat, 
adorning it with every possible attraction. 
The gardens and green-houses were filled 
with the rarest flowers and exotics, of which 
she was passionately fond. Rich Etruscan 
vases and graceful statuary, chiseled by the 
best masters, ornamented the grounds and 
imparted an air of taste and expensive refine- 
ment that attracted amateurs from every 
quarter. Josephine's income was large, but 
she greatly exceeded it, in gratifying the 
love of art, and in the lavish gifts she 
bestowed upon every applicant, from the 
founder of expensive, but valuable, institu- 
tions, down to the poor thread-bare writing- 
master, who claimed the honor of first 
guiding Napoleon's pen. Her generosity 
never consulted the length of her purse. 

A constant correspondence was kept up 
between herself and husband. He prized 
;.L-." letters, hastily tearing them open and 
reading them with the greatest avidity, even 
in the midst of battle. During the last 
months of his absence, however, he neglected 



50" 



y O S E P HI N E. 



to write with his usual punctuahty and affec- 
tion, since he had become violently jealous 
of his wife through the misrepresentations 
of those who watched her with envy and 
malice. Reports of his defeat, and even 
death, reached France, but while the truth 
of it was being- discussed, he suddenly ap- 
peared on the shores of France, with his 
characteristic and startling rapidity of move- 
ment. 

Josephine was at a magnificent levee 
given by Gohier, the president of the Direct- 
ory, When the news of Napoleon's arrival 
was announced, it was received with a thrill 
of surprise and joy by the guests who 
crowded the saloon, while Josephine was 
almost overcome at the suddenness of the 
event to which she had impatiently looked 
forward. Immediately resolving to be 
among the first to meet him on his way to 
Paris, and thus remove his unjust suspicions, 
she left the gay circle, and, accompanied by 
Hortense, set out with the utmost speed. 
Unfortunately they passed each other by 
different routes, which mistake Josephine 
sought to repair in returning to Paris by the 
fleetest posts, but too late to meet the arbi- 
trary man, whose tyranny she began to feel. 
He would not receive her when she reached 
their city residence, since her absence con- 
firmed his suspicions, nor did he abate his 
resentment till, by the tearful entreaties of 
Hortense and Eugene, and the reproaches 
of her friends, who reminded him of all he 
might have lost but for her faithful and 
untiring devotion to his interests in his 
absence, his temper was finally appeased, 
and he again welcomed the wife who suffered 
the most poignant grief from this rude 
repulse of her tenderest affection. 

They retired to Malmaison, which at once 
became the scene of pleasure, of political 
debates and ambitious schemes. 

Napoleon was proclaimed First Consul. 
This anticipated event had been looked to by 
Josephine with great interest and anxiety, 



not from ambitious or selfish motives, but 
because she seriously judged it to be for the 
glory and good of France. 

The Consul took up his residence at the 
Tuilleries; this was suited to his aspirations, 
as having been the seat of royalty. He 
took possession of it with great pomp, dis- 
tinguishing the occasion by military display, 
fireworks, and general rejoicing among the 
people. 

The first soiree given at the Tuilleries, 
was attended by all the distinguished and 
the beauty of Paris, as well as citizens of 
every class. The crowd was so great, that 
even the private apartments were thrown 
open to the guests. Curiosity and conject- 
ure was at its height as to the style in which 
Josephine would appear as the wife of the 
hero of so many battles, the subduer of 
nations, and the guardian of France — a 
curiosity greatly disaj^pointed, when she en- 
tered unannounced, she was dressed with the 
utmost simplicity in white, her hair negli- 
gently confined by a plain comb, and with 
no ornament but an unostentatious necklace 
of pearls. The unassuming dress was the 
more noticeable from the marked contrast it 
afforded to the splendidly attired ladies in 
showy brocades, flashing diamonds, and 
waving plumes that had been selected with 
the most fastidious care to grace the occa- 
sion. The first expression of surprise gave 
way to a murmur of admiration, as Jose- 
phine gracefully passed through the apart- 
ments, saluting her guests with fascinating 
affability, and natural, becoming dignify. 

" She was at this time in her thirty-eighth 
year, but she retained those personal advan- 
tages which usually belong only to more 
youthful years. Her stature was exactly 
that perfection which is neither too tall for 
female delicacy, nor so diminutive as to 
detract from dignity. Her person was fault- 
lessly symmetrical, and the lightness anul 
elasticity of its action gave an aerial char- 
acter to her graceful carriage. Her features 



JOSEPHINE. 



501 



were small and finely modeled, of a Grecian 
cast . The habitual exjDression of her coun- 
tenance was a placid sweetness. Her eyes 
were of a deep blue, clear and brilliant, 
usually lying half concealed und their 
long silky eye-lashes. The winning tender- 
ness of her mild, subdued glance, had a 
power which could tranquilize Napoleon in 
his darkest moods. Her hair was ' glossy 
chestnut brown,' harmonizing delightfully 
with a clear complexion and neck of almost 
dazzling whiteness. Her voice constituted 
one of the most pleasing attractions and ren- 
dered her conversation the most captivating 
that can easily be conceived." 

Napoleon's tyranny over his household, 
and in little things, increased in proportion 
to his power. Especially toward Josephine 
and her suite he exercised a wayward and 
annoying surveillance, that would have been 
insupportable to any other than his devoted, 
patient wife. Her influence over him was 
widely known, and, in consequence, she was 
thronged w^ith applicants of every descrip- 
tion. 

In May, iSoo, Napoleon with a brilliant 
army, again set out for Italy. Josephine re- 
tired to Malmaison, where she remained 
during his absence, indulging in the study of 
botany. 

Napoleon was absent but two months. 
With incredible speed his army had crossed 
the Alps, in defiance of danger and death, 
descended upon the beautiful plains of Italy, 
and with a few brilliant strokes, scattered 
the astounded Austrians, who believed him 
quietly reposing upon his laurels. He 
returned in triumphal march, advancing to- 
ward the capital amidst the shouts of gath- 
ering crowds, roused to the highest pitch of 
enthusiasm. His arrival at midnight was 
first made known to Josephine by his noisy, 
rapid strides through her apartm.ents, when 
he came to arouse her with the account of 
his triumphant success. These sudden inter- 
ruptions of her rest were not uncommon. 



for she was frequently awakened from deep 
sleep to accompany him in long walks 
through the botanical gardens to listen 
to some new plans which had suddenly shot 
through his restless brain. 

At the close of this year the Consulship 
was bestowed upon Napoleon for life, but 
this additional evidence of confidence and 
admiration gave Josephine more anxiety 
than gratification, for, with her keen fore- 
sight and knowledge of Napoleon's charac- 
ter, she perceived the final result, and knew 
full well that his ambitious strides would 
soon carry him beyond the shadow of Re- 
publicanism that remained. His imitation 
of royalty in occupying a separate suit of 
apartments in their new residence in the 
splendid palace of St. Cloud, gave her still 
greater cause for anxiety ; it lent a seriousness 
to the vague hints of divorce from Napoleon, 
who longed to perpetuate his power and 
name through descendants. Josephine, 
however, was not of an unhappy tempera- 
ment, and was willing to close her eyes to 
future ills. Napoleon and Josephine were 
crowned Emperor and Empress at the 
church of Notre-Dame, in the presence of 
an immense concourse of people. Napoleon 
appeared in a gorgeous statedress, attended 
by his marshals and all the dignitaries of 
France, while Josephine was magnificently 
attired and surrounded by the ladies of her 
suite. An elegantly decorated platform had 
been erected at the end of the spacious 
church. Here, after an imposing perform- 
ance of Mass, Napoleon received the crown 
from the Pope, placed it upon his head him- 
self, then rested it a moment upon the brow 
of Josephine, who knelt before h m in tear- 
ful agitation. The Testament was then pre- 
sented to the Emperor, who pronounced the 
oath, with his ungloved hand resting upon 
the sacred book. The ceremonies finished, 
the imperial assemblage retired amidst deaf- 
ening shouts of " Vive V Em-pereur H 



503 



y O S E PHINE. 



Josephine now saw the predictions of her 
greatness fulfilled, but her happiness and 
peace decreased in proportion to the unpre- 
cedented rise of the man with whose 
destiny hers was linked. She seldom saw 
the Emperor alone, he being almost always 
occupied in affairs of state, or traveling by 
post to all parts of the kingdom. She some- 
times accompanied him, but the addresses to 
which she was obliged to reply, and the 
endless code of court ceremonials, which 
Napoleon insisted upon being minutely 
observed, were so innumerable, that, despite 
her diligence in studying them, she could 
not retain a fourth part of them in her 
head — a great annoyance to her, notwith- 
standing she never for a moment lost her 
self-possession. Her impromptu replies, ren- 
dered appropriate by her quick sense of 
fitness, imparted a sweetness and sincerity to 
whatever she said or did, and not only saved 
her from censure or ridicule, but increased 
the admiration and respect of those about 
her. 

For some time after the coronation, 
the Emperor and Empress remained 
at St. Cloud. While there, Josephine 
usually arose at nine o'clock, spent an 
hour in making a toilet, enjoyed a walk or 
some other recreation, and breakfasted at 
eleven o'clock, when she was occasionally 
joined by the Emperor, though he never 
remained above ten minutes at table, consid- 
ering it lost time. She afterward received 
petitioners, to all of whom she gave ready 
assistance. Retiring to her own apartments, 
the remainder of the morning was spent 
with the ladies of her suite, all of whom 
were engaged in embroidering, while one of 
their number read aloud from some enter- 
taining and instructive author. Works of 
fiction were never permitted to be circulated 
in the palace, as Napoleon was strictly and 
severely opposed to that class of literature. 
He sometimes suddenly appeared in their 
midst, talking gaily and freely with the 



ladies of honor, and occasionally joining in a 
game of cards, but his stay was always short 
He was often present while the evening 
toilet of the Empress was in preparation 
overturning her boxes in his impatience, 
tossing about the most costly jewels as if of 
no value, and frightening her attendants by 
his irritable criticisms. He did not scruple 
to destroy an elegant dress, if it happened 
not to strike his fancy, obliging her to 
assume another — a needless interference, in- 
asmuch as she was always appareled with 
exquisite taste. 

An important and happy event called her 
to Munich at the close of the year. The 
marriage of Eugene with the Princess of 
Bavaria was magnificently celebrated there; 
it gave both the Emperor and Empress the 
utmost satisfaction," not only for politic rea- 
sons, but because their mutual attachment 
gave promise of domestic peace. 

All that Josephine had desired was now 
accomplished. Her fears and anxiety as to 
the Emperor's idea of divorce were forgotten 
after the birth of a son to Hortense, now 
Queen of Holland. Josephine's future peace 
depended upon his life. As though to 
mock the hopes centered in the young 
prince. Death marked him an early victim. 
Upon hearing the tidings, Napoleon re- 
peatedly exclaimed: " To whom shall I leave 
all this?" The event afflicted Josephine 
■with a double grief. She not only mourned 
the loss of a favorite, but trembled under the 
stroke that threatened her own happiness. 
She knew perfectly well that the powerful 
conqueror would not hesitate to sacrifice her, 
if she impeded his limitless designs, though 
he loved her with all the devotion of which 
his selfish nature was capable. 

Nearly a year passed before Napoleon 
made known to her his unalterable decision, 
but that year was full of inexpressible torture 
to Josephine. A private passage, terminated 
by a small door, connected their apartments. 
At this, the Emperor was acpHStomed to 



y O S E P HINE. 



503 



knock when he desired an interview. These 
occasions when the subject of divorce was 
discussed, became so painful to Josephine 
that the usual summons caused violent palpi- 
tation of the heart, trembling and faintness. 
She could scarcely support herself while 
hesitating at the door to gather strength and 
courage for interviews that inflicted almost 
unendurable anguish. 

The final decision was made known to 
her, May 30th, by Napoleon himself, after 
ordering the attendants to withdraw. Of 
this she says: "I watched in the changing 
expression of his countenance that struggle 
which was in his soul. At length his feat- 
ures settled into a stern resolve. I saw that 
my hour was come. His whole frame 
trembled; he approached and I felt a shud- 
dering horror come over me. He took my 
hand, placed it upon his heart, gazed upon 
me for a moment, then pronounced these 
fearful words: 'Josephine! my excellent 
Josephine! thou knowest if I have loved 
thee! To thee, to thee alone, do I owe the 
only moments of happiness which I have 
enjoyed in this world. Josephine, my des- 
tiny overmasters my will. My dearest 
affections must be silent before the interests 
of France.' ' Say no more,' I had still 
strength to reply, ' I was prepared for this, 
but the blow is not the less mortal.' 
More I could not utter. I became uncon- 
scious of everything, and on returning to 
my senses, found I had been carried to my 
chamber." 

From this time to the i6th of December, 
she was obliged to appear at the fetes with 
a smiling countenance and cheerful de- 
meanor, while beneath it all, her heart was 
breaking. Her decision was not formally 
announced to the public till the i6th of De- 
cember, when the Council of State were 
summoned to appear at the Tuilleries. Na- 
poleon's family, who secretly exulted at the 
event, were also gathered in the grand 
saloon. A chair, in front of which stood a 



table with writing apparatus of gold, was 
placed in the center of the apartment. At a 
little distance stood Eugene with compressed 
lips and his arms folded over a heart swell- 
ing with resentment. Josephine entered 
with her usual grace, pale but calm, leaning 
on the arm of Hortense, who conducted her 
to the central chair, and stationed herself be- 
hind it, weeping bitterly. The Empress sat 
composedly, with her head leaning on her 
hand, the tears coursing silently down her 
deathly-pale cheek, listening to the reading 
of the Act that was to separate her forever 
from the man for whom she would have 
laid down her life. Napoleon in vain en- 
deavored to suppress the emotion that be- 
trayed itself in the violent workings of his 
countenance; it was the wrenching of a 
strong affection from a soul that was else 
all chaos and darkness; it was the oblitera- 
tion of a guiding-star that had led him to the 
topmost pinnacle of greatness, and without 
whose steady radiance he must blindly over- 
step his narrow foothold and plunge from 
the dizzy height, 

A solemn stillness rested upon the assem. 
blage when the reading of the Act ceased. 
Even the Bonaparte family were touched 
with Josephine's uncomplaining sorrow. 
She pressed her handkerchief to her eyes 
for an instant, then rising took the oath of 
acceptance in a tremulous voice, resumed 
her seat, and, taking the pen, signed the 
document. The dreaded ceremony finished, 
she immediately retired, accompanied by 
Hortense and Eugene, who fell senseless as 
he reached the ante-chamber. The silent 
witnessing of his mother's suffering was too 
much for him to endure ; for her sake and 
in compliance with her entreaties, he had 
restrained his burning resentment. Jose- 
phine burst into an uncontrollable paroxysm 
of tears, when she reached her private 
apartments, sobbing and groaning w^ith an 
anguish heart-rending to behold. 



504 



y OS E P HINE . 



Carriages were in waiting to convey her 
to Malmaison. While preparations were 
making for her departure, Napoleon came 
to bid her a final farewell. As he ap- 
proached, she threw herself into his arms, 
and clung to him with a tenderness that con- 
veyed, more than words, the intensity and 
faithfulness of a love which nothing could 
tear from her heart. Overcome by her 
emotions, she fainted and was placed upon a 
couch, over which Napoleon hung with 
unconcealed anxiety and pain, tenderly 
stroking her cold face and himself applying 
restoratives. Returning consciousness 

brought her more frantic grief, when she 
perceived the Emperor was no longer near 
her, for he had hastily left the apartment, 
fearing another scene. She seized the hand 
of an officer who still remained, and in 
accents of wild sorrow, entreated him to 
tell the Emperor not to forget her. No one 
could restrain tears of sympathy for the 
beloved Empress, so unjustly thrust from the 
affections of an adored husband. 

She was accompanied to Malmaison by 
persons of distinction. She still retained 
the title of Empress, and received an ample 
revenue to support the expenses incident to 
her rank. Malmaison was elegantly fur- 
nished and embellished with many costly 
articles sent her by Napoleon's orders. She 
here held her court, which was frequented 
by the savans of Paris as well as the gay 
and beautif jl. Thus Malmaison once more 
became the scene of fetes, balls, and splendid 
entertainments. These gayeties could not 
divert Josephine from her one great sorrow. 
Every object in that lovely retreat where 
their earliest days of happiness had been 
spent, reminded her of wi at she in vain 
tried to forget. Her tears flowed afresh at 
the sight of the haunts they had frequented 
together; the flowers, that had given her so 
much delight, now only recalled painful 
associations. The rooms which had been 
exclusively Napoleon's, she would permit 



no one but herself to enter, retaining every 
article precisely as he had left it. The maps 
he had studied, the books with leaves turned 
down, his apparel just where he had flung it 
in some impatient mood; everything re- 
mained undisturbed and sacred to her own 
eyes ah-eady inflamed and almost sightless 
with continual weeping. What agonizing 
remembrances of happiness she must have 
endured in this silent, deserted apartment! 
What abandonment to grief, where every 
object recalled the loved face and voice of 
one lost to her forever, and where no curious 
eyes checked her tears ! 

It was well for her health and repose that 
she finally determined to forsake Mal- 
maison and retire to a palace that had lain 
nearly in ruins, since the devastation of 
the Revolution, but which was chai-mingly 
situated. It had originally been celebrated 
for its spacious park, elegant gardens, lakes, 
fountains, and all that could render it an 
envied possession. The occupation of restor- 
ing its original beauty, of giving employ- 
ment to the poor peasantry in the neighbor- 
hood, as well as escaping the heartless 
attentions of courtiers, and the wearisome 
gayeties of court, was a beneficial, wise 
change. 

Josephine was accompanied thither by 
her most intimate, valuable friends, and 
a few young ladies whose guardian she 
became. She was never forsaken, however, 
by the world, who testified the sincerity of 
its admiration by visits to this out-of-the- 
way home of the loved Empress. Her 
mornings were passed in company with the 
ladies of her suite, engaged in some useful 
work, and listening at the same time to 
one vifho read aloud. The afternoons were 
occupied in rides, walks, or visits to the 
poor, who were constant objects of charity. 
The evenings were passed in the saloons 
in lively conversation, occasional games at 
cards, or listening to the music of the harp 
and piano in adjoining apartments, where 




THE POSTMAN ON ST. VALENTINE'S DAY. 



y OSEPHINE. 



507 



the young people engaged in dances or 
noisy games, which, liowever much they 
disturbed the quiet of the saloons, Josephine 
would never allow to be checked, for she 
loved to see all around her cheerful and 
happy, even w^hile her own heart was too 
sad for her face to brighten with a single 
smile. 

The news of the Emperor's marriage with 
the beautiful Maria Louise of Austria, was 
anew pang to her already lacerated feelings. 
She could not conceal her grief on her first 
meeting with Napoleon, after the event 
that deprived her of every claim upon his 
thoughts and affections. He often visited 
her, and evinced the lingering love and 
veneration he entertained for her admirable 
character, by the entire confidence with 
which he unfolded all his plans to her. A 
correspondence, sustained between them, was 
her greatest pleasure. 

The birth of a son at .St. Cloud was 
announced to Josephine while attending a 
dinner. With no feeling of jealousy or 
envy, this noble woman added her congratu- 
lations and sincerely rejoiced with all France 
at the accession of an heir to the throne. 
The only regret she expressed was, that she 
had not first received the intelligence from 
Napoleon himself. When at length a letter 
arrived, communicating the tidings, she 
retired to read it, and remained in seclusion 
an hour. When she returned to her guests, 
her face bore evident traces of tears. She 
longed to behold the young prince — a wish 
which Napoleon granted by himself placing 
the child in her arms. 

Bonaparte continued to confide his most 
secret plans to Josephine. When he imparted 
to her his designs upon Russia, she used 
her utmost persuasion to induce him to 
abandon the wild project, in which she dimly 
foresaw his ruin. During that frightful 
campaign their correspondence was con- 
tinued without interruption. " His letters 
to her were more frequent and more affec- 



tionate than ever, while hers, written by 
every opportunity, were perused under all 
circumstances with a promptitude which 
clearly showed the pleasure or the consola- 
tion that was expected; in fact it was 
observed that letters from Malmaison or 
Navane were always torn rather than 
broken open, and were instantly read, what- 
ever else might be retarded." 

The news of his disasters filled Josephine 
with fearful apprehensions. He returned 
to France with the shattered remains of his 
brilliant army, unwilling to believe her peo- 
ple would dare to conspire against the bold 
conqueror who challenged all the world to- 
battle. Neither his self-confidence nor his 
giant grasp could retain the crown, lost in 
his vain reachings after another. It was toa 
late now to retrace his steps. In a short 
and painful interview with Josephine, he 
acknowledged that he might still have been 
Emperor of France, had he regarded her 
faithful entreaties. This was the last time 
she ever beheld him. The revolution that 
soon succeeded, alarmed her for his fate. 

Josephine was here visited by the Emperor 
Alexander, with whom she plead for 
Napoleon. It was greatly owing to her 
influence and eloquence, and a regard for her 
devoted attachment for Napoleon, that severe 
measures were not taken to crush or effect- 
ually pinion his ambitious spirit. Josephine 
was comparatively happy when it was at 
last announced to her that he was to possess,, 
in full sovereignty, the principality of the 
Island of Elba, an envied fate in contrast to 
the one she had feared. Upon his departure 
she wrote a most affectionate and touching- 
letter, and would have followed him but for 
the delicacy of supplanting his rightful wife. 

Malmaison was again thronged with the 
great and gay, who came now, not with 
empty flattery, but to assure the Empress of 
the most profound esteem. The Emperor 
Alexander, on meeting her, expressed his 
gratification thus: " Madame, I burned with 



5oS 



y OS EPH INE . 



the desire to behold you. Since I entered 
France, I have never heard your name pro- 
nounced but with benedictions. In the cot- 
tage and in the palace, I have collected 
accounts of your goodness, and I do myself 
a pleasure in thus presenting to your majesty 
the universal homage of v^hich I am the 
bearer." 

She was also visited by the King of 
Prussia. Louis, the occupant of the throne 
of France, conferred flattering distinctions 
upon Eugene, and would have made him 
martial of France had his pride permitted 
him to accept the honor. Hortense was also 
received with marked favor. 

These monarchs frequently visited and 
dined at Malmaison, where Josephine grace- 
fully did the honors. On the'last occasion. 
May 19th, when a grand dinner was given 
to the allied sovereigns, she became too ill to 
remain with her guests. She left her duties 
with Hortense to perform, obliged at length 
to yield to a disease that for some time she 
had endeavored to keep at bay. A malig- 
nant form of quinzy had fastened upon her, 
and, despite the exertion of the most skill- 
ful physicians, it made rapid and alarming 
progress. She articulated with much diffi- 
culty. She expressed affection for her 
children, who remained constantly at her 
bedside, by grateful and tender looks, often 
smiling upon them while enduring the 
severest pain, endeavoring to calm their 
agitation and lessen their anxiety. A few 
days, however, so changed the beloved coun- 
tenance of their mother that no hopes were 
-entertained for her recovery. 

She, herself, quickly recognized the hand 
-of death. In her last moments, her thoughts 



wandered far away to Elba, longing for the 
presence of one whom not even the near 
approach of eternity could drive from her 
heart. A portrait of Napoleon hung near, 
which she motioned to be brought to her 
and placed where she could gaze upon it, 
as if to number him, who had forsaken her, 
among the weeping ones gathered about 
her. Hortense and Eugene knelt at the 
bedside, overcome with grief, and sobbing 
painfully while they received her last bless- 
ing. At this moment the Emperor Alex- 
ander, who visited her daily, entered and 
was gratefully recognized by Josephine. 
She summoned all her remaining strength, 
to say in a faint whisper, " I shall die 
regretted. I have aHvays desired the hap- 
piness of France; I did all in my power to 
contribute to it ; I can say with truth, that 
the first wife of Napoleon never caused a 
tear to flow." 

Though crowned an empress, she never 
lost the sweetness and simplicity of char- 
acter that belonged to her lively girlhood, in 
the quiet at Martinique. Early disappoint, 
ments and afflictions, so far from embitter- 
ing her nature, served to chasten and fortify 
her spirit for the gentle endurance of sternet 
griefs. Great in prosperity, she was greater 
in adversity. She is an example of humane 
sympathy, of calm reason, of lofty magna- 
nimity, thorough integrity, and unfaltering 
' devotion to the objects of her affection. Hers 
was that simple wisdom of a true heart 
which transcends the niost dazzling genius 
of man. And as one of earth's true souls, 
she will enlist the warm admiration of all 
who have an earnestness akin to hers, so 
long as the world endures. 



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